


Pseudomemory

by dweeblet



Category: SOMA (Video Game)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Artificial Intelligence, Blow Jobs, Brain Damage, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Clones, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Dream Sex, Dubious Science, Epic Friendship, Ethical Dilemmas, Existential Crisis, F/F, F/M, Female Pronouns for WAU, Grief/Mourning, Hacking, Headcanon, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mercy Killing, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Not Beta Read, Optimism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Partial Mind Control, Philosophy, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Prosthesis, Queerplatonic Relationships, Rebuilding, Recovery, Religion, Robotics, Science Fiction, Species Dysphoria, Stream of Consciousness, Survival Horror, Threesome - F/M/M, Time Travel, Video & Computer Games, Wuss Mode AU, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: Simon is alone, at first. That doesn't last long.[Rating increased to Explicit for sexual content.]





	1. Awakening

Simon huffs and hoists himself over the ledge, crawling on his hands and knees through the ventilation shaft. Pressurized steam hisses from vents in the piping, the stinging red lights flickering and gleaming in the dark. He lifts his head till he can feel the top tubing press against him, balancing on his forearms and craning his neck to see the room beyond the vent.

 

He slides over the outer grate, swinging his legs around the corroded metal so his feet can touch the paneled metal flooring. The wrecked room before him has been overtaken by winding black tendrils, ridged and dotted with luminescent blue scabs that each pulse in time to wheezing breaths.

 

Viscous black fluid seeps from the ceiling, congealed around twisted scraps of metal and dotted with luminescent bulbs. Simon shudders as it drips and strikes the floor with wet smacks.

 

At the center of the room, just in front of the darkened terminal, lies the still-twitching wreckage of a machine, sparking and emitting long hisses through severed electrical wires. Simon skirts the destroyed robot, daring to nudge the thing with a heavy rubber boot. No response. 

 

Its pincer-hands click open and shut and the twisted thing looks around with a single optic enclosed by two curved plates that remind Simon of dog’s ears, rotating upward to expose dark machinery as he moves and makes noise. The robot’s gaze follows him silently.

 

Two banded cables that look suspiciously organic wind from the machine, hooked up to spiraling blue-black pods, probably a little smaller than Simon’s head, that have grown over some parts of the terminal. Simon glances around once more, taking in the cancerous growths that have crept over the room, punching through panels and winding through grates. It looks like some type of impossible plant life, a fungus, maybe. He wonders if he has awoken on an alien planet.

 

He peers at the nearest monitor: a mess, jumbled static and meaningless bars of color that flicker blindingly in his eyes. The other fares no better, and his gaze turns to the robot twitching on the floor before him.

 

“Can you hear me?” He asks, kneeling to face the machine. His stomach turns as he examines it further and realizes how little of it is actually inorganic. Blackened tissue and hot blue warts define its physiology beneath metal plating.

 

The robot doesn’t respond.

 

With no reason to do otherwise,  he curls his fingers around the head of the nearest cable, yanking it from the alien growth with a grunt.

 

The robot screams.

 

“No!” It cries feebly, a synthesized voice carrying far too much desperate panic to be just a machine. Simon flinches as its functioning pincer clenches, banging once against the paneled floor as raspy breaths carry over the speaker in what generally appears to be its ‘head.’

 

The pod is damaged too much to reinsert the cable, and Simon’s gaze wanders back to the terminal. The monitors there look better, one flashes vaguely coherent information through the static.

 

_ RADIO SIGNAL BLOCKED. INSUFFICIENT POWER. _

 

This robot is draining power from the system. Hesitantly, Simon tugs the other long, banded tendril from the remaining pod.

 

His heart sinks.

 

It definitely has a woman’s voice, he notes in the back of his mind, as it, she, begs. “No! I need it!” It gasps, single optic swiveling to Simon and though it expresses nothing, he can feel the pathetic sense of betrayal that rolls from the bot in waves. “Why?” She begs, choking, “I was okay.” Her voice is weak and watery, head lowering. “I was... “ a soft, rasping breath. “I was happy.”

 

He tells himself it is just a recording, a sick joke.

 

Simon can’t even swallow right now, but turns away from the corpse as the whirring stutters and metal clatters: she’s shutting down now. The harsh blue light from her optic flickers out as he punches the orange button in the center of the terminal. 

 

_ STANDING BY _ , says the display to the right. He had to do it, Simon reasons.

 

He steels himself and moves to the terminal again, thick rubber gloves making his fingers clumsy as he presses buttons in quick succession, initializing a manual boot.

 

There is a near-deafening roar as the thermal generator shudders to life, great rumbling clangs as lighting systems leap to attention in quick succession. The monitors light up with clean lines and impersonal blue light, declaring in bold text the status of coolant and the current frequency of the turbines. This information is of little interest to Simon, so he turns instead to the other display.

 

Simon watches the bar fill up with no success, each site checked is  _ OFFLINE _ in bold red type. Just as he moves to turn away, site Lambda lights up, online, and the symbols glow hot white in the dark. Site Upsilon, Simon gathers, is where he is now, and according to the monitor before him it’s in the process of connecting to Lambda.

 

He waits patiently, eager to hear another real voice, a human voice and not some imitation.

 

“Oh- what is- what’s happening?” The static nearly drowns out her voice, thick and weary-sounding over the intercom. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

 

Hope swelling in his chest, Simon chirps promptly into the microphone. “Hey!” He cries, “Hey, can y’hear me?”

 

“I hear you,” says the woman, and he almost wants to cry at the relief. Not a recording, not a fake. Not some mocking facsimile, not like that machine. “Upsilon. What’s going on?”

 

Without answers, Simon’s voice hitches as he struggles to formulate a response. “I-” he stutters, “I uh, I have no idea. I just sort of woke up here.” His fingers curl against the terminal, rubber gloves creaking as they stretch with his movements.

 

The woman doesn’t sound condescending, but her tone makes Simon feel small, like a child being chastised by a schoolmaster. “In the room, right now?”

 

“It was like an- uh,” Simon gropes for the words to describe it, but all that comes out is a lame, “A seat, with like, a helmet?” He hadn’t meant for it to leave his lips a question, but there was no helping it now.

 

“Is that right?” She sounds almost suspicious, voice low and analytic. Mercifully, it rises again as she asks him, “What’s your name?”

 

It’s almost demeaning, really. “Simon Jarrett,” he supplies promptly. He feels like some kind of dog, desperate to please, being told to jump and asking how high. It’s in this woman’s tone, like she’s speaking to someone much less intelligent than herself.

 

But Simon swallows those convictions, because now is no time to be sensitive, and this stranger is the only friendly voice he’s heard so far in this nightmare facility.

 

“What’re you-” she cuts herself off with a low curse, “damn relays,” but quickly composes herself. “Where are you now?”

 

“Um,” is Simon’s eloquent response as he glances around the room. “It’s uh, a place dealing with electrical power,” he ventures. “I’m not sure if it’s some kind of plant or transformer or-”

 

The strange woman on the intercom cuts him off tersely. “Yeah, yeah, you’re probably in the thermal plant somewhere.” The whining static that’s laced over her voice is beginning to grate on his nerves. “You’ll wanna go upstairs to the  _ comm center _ . It’s the room with the domed ceiling.”

 

Noted. But there’s more and Simon needs to talk about it. Now. “Hey, but uh, look. This place- something’s not right. There’s something seriously wrong here.” Only static and shrill beeping, clicks and rattles carry over the speaker. “Hello?”

 

“M’sorry,” the woman replies suddenly. “Didn’t catch that. We lost another relay.” She speaks quickly enough that Simon needs a moment to process what she’s said. “Listen,” and that scolding tone returns, “Head for the comm center, upstairs.” For this last part she speaks slowly, as though he doesn’t speak the language. “I’ll wait here.”

 

Before Simon can splutter an indignant response, the console beeps three times in quick succession before the monitor is overtaken by blocky red type:  _ No Signal _ .

 

Quietly damning this terse stranger, Simon shuffles away from the terminal, skirting the remains of the robot he’d just dismantled to peer at the other screen. Seeing no notable change in its display, he pads over to the newly-unlocked door, the sign just above it reading ‘station central.’ He tentatively brushes a finger over the touch-activated orange button just to the left of the door and it slides open with a mechanical whir.

 

He steps out onto a grated metal catwalk with a sign nailed to the railing, warning of a ‘falling hazard.’ Simon scoffs internally, peering down at the hot red pit below, all manner of piping and metal reaching down into its depths. He can see some more of that blackened alien growth mixing in with the tubes, but in most places it’s difficult to distinguish between them.

 

There is another terminal just to his right, so he heads over and taps on its display. It details perforation and breaches in the inner hull, of what Simon assumes to be an underwater facility. With nothing to do here, he moves on, glancing further to his right where more tumor-like growth has crushed that side of the catwalk. Hammered letters on the far wall mark the area as “UPSILON.”

 

Instead, he turns left and heads over that side of the walk, passing a heavily barred metal door and linked fence, all labeled with a multitude of signs warning of high-pressure steam. There is a multitude of what appear to be some type of converters or generators that draw power from the blazing well at the entrance to the site, and a central walk arching over them. That particular structure, however, is ruined, a long gap breaking the route across. Just beyond the broken bridge the walk makes a turn, and a steel ladder is attached to the edge.

 

Simon doesn’t fancy himself an idiot, and in avoidance of the impending fall he pads around the bend to the ladder. He lowers himself onto it, ready to grip the second rung from the top when the whole thing detaches from the walk and leaves him sprawled on his back with a throbbing head.

 

His heart pounds and he gasps at the sudden and painful vertigo, silently noting he was indeed an idiot to neglect checking the integrity of a ladder in a dilapidated facility. The terminal over the well said one-hundred and forty-some-odd days of downtime, after all.

 

With a remorseful grunt Simon picks himself up, peering up at the multitude of cylindrical machines whirring as they pump power from the heat of the earth.

 

Something bangs, slamming against the floor, or the wall, or something- Simon doesn’t dare to find out as he tucks his head and ducks behind a useless terminal on the ground floor. The set of letters is still impassively there, and from the door beneath them emerges something out of a nightmare. 

 

At its base it looks like one of the dysfunctional robots Simon had found upon first awakening and exploring the tech depot. Absently, he thinks they were called “helpers” of some kind, a numbered code of ‘u’-three-something or other. If that was it, nothing would be so bad, but it’s more: a jumbled mess of bull parts and more of those awful banded tendrils, this time arranged more like strands of muscle tissue than the roots of alien flora. 

 

The module, connected by those fibrous wires, serving as a head tips from side to side, a blinding white light emitting from its single wide optic, not unlike the dimmer face of the deactivated specimen in the control room.

 

It stomps forward, the beam from its flashlight sweeping the open floor. It chatters something staticky and unintelligible, a high-pitched whistling screech.

  
Simon dares not move, eyes wide as he trembles against the terminal. The monster howls, moving around the nearest generator and out of sight. Simon sucks in an anxious breath, bunching his legs beneath him. There is a fan and a little deck just ahead, with piping and an attached valve to boot. If he can get over there, he can be safe.


	2. Mockingbird

He bolts, feeling the hot light of the construct’s beam searing his back, hearing its thunderous steps shake the ground behind him as it screeches and gives chase. Simon hauls himself over the rail, somewhere the cumbersome beast cannot go, and with herculean effort twists the valve clean off, sending plumes of high-pressure steam into the air.

 

The monster cries like a wounded animal as it attempts to take the short staircase up to the deck, to Simon, and runs headlong into the burning steam. He tucks himself against the piping, shaking and waiting for the construct to shake the pain off and use those powerful pincered arms to tear the railing away and drag Simon to his doom, but it never does.

 

Against his better judgment, Simon shifts away from the wall to get a better look at the biomechanical abomination.

 

Glowing white-blue tumors cover the construct’s swollen body, from which two clawed arms protrude. It walks on two backwards-bending metal legs, a stomping waddle that looks almost painful, like a dog with hip dysplasia.

 

In fact it looks quite pitiful, tipping its head with a single sad eye aimed at Simon, the beam from its searchlight suddenly seeming dim and watery. It chatters at him in a warbling melody that sounds nearly dejected, and even without words Simon understands the message.

 

All basic human instincts scream at the wrongness of the construct, to run and hide away where it can never find him, but something else is stronger, an inexplicable, almost familial sort of pity for the vaguely avian thing. It reminds him of a heavy flightless bird, like an ostrich or emu. Simon clicks his tongue at the cyborg-bird, reaching out towards it with his nondominant hand. 

 

Bitterly, he figures that if it takes his arm, it might as well be his least favorite one.

 

The construct does not take his arm. Instead, it emits a staticky chirp and nudges his hand with its head-module. Hesitantly, Simon taps it in some lame imitation of a pat, still trembling at the sight of it. He does not know how long he remains still before the construct chitters something unintelligible and lumbers away, but once it does he still doesn’t relax. He feels dirty.

 

He can feel the twisted bull unit watching him as he carefully lowers himself over the rail, movements slow and cautious as not to provoke it. He skirts it with a wide berth, feeling shivers run down his spine as he pads up the far stairway. 

 

Simon pushes the lever down and it lights up green, a long metal doorway sliding open above them at a painfully slow pace. He shuffles up the stairs as quickly as his nerves allow, nearly tearing the other lever at the top from its hinges as he shoves it carelessly downwards, shutting the door behind him. He lets his breathing slow once the trapdoor grinds into place.

 

Power seems to have been automatically restored to this room, and lights flicker. Sleeping bags, pillows and blankets litter the floor in one corner. Multitudinous sketches and notes litter the ground beside it and Simon’s heart aches. Empty cans that Simon figures once contained some kind of food lie, rusting, on the floor nearby.

 

There is a terminal shaped like an ‘L’ with a great multitude of buttons and switches, and two separate monitors staring blankly towards the wall. There is some more of that hideous growth here, but less, and despite himself Simon feels concerned that something isn’t right. Rather, it’s less right than everything else in this damnable place.

 

More of those freakish growths seem to have burst through the ceiling at some point, leaving only viscous oil and mangled metal in their wake. Simon can see one of those curious pods, like the ones the female mimic was hooked up to, nestled among bent steel and bioluminescence.

 

He hesitates, but feels drawn to the undamaged thing. It glows faintly, pulsing, like it’s breathing, and it mesmerizes Simon. He draws nearer, reaching out with index finger extended to touch it. It shudders as he does, the glow flickering away like crabs’ legs retreating within its shell. Simon feels something that drives up almost up the wall, and he slams his fist against the sign just to the left of him, a warning of electrical hazard.

 

It’s like adrenaline, it makes his sight clearer and his head feels focused, and oh how he  _ loves _ whatever the pod is that fed him this mothermilk drug. With a shudder of pleasure he draws away, stumbling with drunken confidence to the nearest door.

 

He peers over through the glass panes to something that looks like an assembly line. There is a walk, probably as high off the ground as Simon is tall, and railed, with a long control panel not unlike the main terminal in this room. He can’t see much more beyond the foggy windows, so he presses his clumsy palm against the orange button, and the door slides open.

 

He paws at the junk, notepads and coffee mugs scattered over the top part of the terminal, staring blankly at meaningless screens until something else catches his attention. He blinks rapidly, eyes darting between the mechanical arms of the assembly line and the strange robot splayed across it.

 

This one looks like another one of those helper units, albeit much less mangled than the birdish one that had stomped among the generators. Simon descends the staircase, head tipped curiously to one side as he approaches the bot. It seems to recoil some, those folding plates on its braincase splaying backwards in something like fear.

 

“What the hell happened to you?” It asks in the staticky voice of a man. The tone sounds like some trying to make a joke, but the tremble beneath it renders the attempt in vain.

 

Simon allows himself to examine the machine, just like the one he disconnected in the thermal plant, it is covered in those bioluminescent blue warts and dark scabs.

 

“What  _ are _ you?” He retorts, skirting the twisted machine.

 

The bot seems indignant and the red light in its chest flickers in time with its words. “You blind? It’s me. Carl.” The machine- Carl- looks expectantly at Simon with its single glowing optic. “Carl Semken. Wrangler. Any’a this sound familiar to you?”

 

A blank stare is Simon’s only reply as he struggles to form words. “I-I” he stutters lamely. “No, actually.”

 

“Well, thanks for bein’ so helpful.” He shoots an indignant stare at Simon before continuing sarcastically, “Not like’m knocked out on the floor or anythin’.”

 

Confused, Simon ventures: “Are you human?” He wonders just how dull that pod made his mind, because he distantly knows that this is a very stupid question to ask.

 

“Shit,” the robot drawls, “Did my body give it away?” He taps his head module with a claw. “I try my best to stay a mystery-- ‘course I’m human! You?”

Simon scowls. “I’m Simon,” he says, somewhat evasively, and figures that he might as well take advantage of the situation. “Do you know anything about this place?”

 

The bot seems to deflate. “Oh,” he says dully. “You’re new. That makes things…. Slightly less weird.” Simon allows his gaze to follow the great bundle of cables winding from the bot’s backside, into an open panel in the wall.  

 

Carl taps his claw against the metal floor to recapture Simon’s attention and sighs. “Look,” he huffs, “I’m obviously hurt, okay? So if you see anyone else ‘round, just tell ‘em where I am.”

 

“So where are  _ you  _ exactly?”

 

“Are you for real? I’m right here. See me wavin’? Lookit my hands!” Simon balks as the bot swings his claw animatedly, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat. “See ‘em? Buddy?”

 

“Okay, okay!” Simon moves skittishly away. “I’m not seeing it,” he confesses. “I see a machine, a robot talking.”

 

Semken grows only more flustered, adding to Simon’s discomfort. “The hell’re you lookn’ at?” The robot attempts to prop itself up on one working arm, the red light flashing erratically. “I’m here, see?!”

 

It’s a losing battle, Simon realizes, to keep pressing the issue. “Okay,” he concedes, stuttering. “I just didn’t expect you to look like that.”

 

Carl seems calmer now, if only a little. “You’re really hung up on appearances,” he comments, “y’know that?”

 

Simon elects not to respond. Instead he changes the subject: “How did you hurt yourself?”

 

Dejectedly, Semken explains. “Not sure. Blacked out pretty bad. Can’t remember how I got  _ here _ .” Simon feels sick.

 

“What  _ do _ you remember, then?”

 

“I was in a pilot seat, remoting a UH,” he says, and Simon is already lost on what the fresh hell he’s talking about.

 

“A UH?” He inquires, somewhat hesitantly.

 

“Yeah,” Carl confirms, only somewhat condescending. “A universal helper. Y’know, a robot.” He gestures to the stiff and malfunctioning assembly line arms. “Like these fellas,” he explains, “but livelier. Anyway, I was just dealing with some heat shields…” He trails off for a moment, but picks up the pace again when Simon shoots a questioning look. “That’s my last clear memory.”

 

Simon’s head is swimming. His heart has dropped to his toes-- this bot really, truly believes it’s human and he wonders why or how people would create something like this. So cruel, Simon thinks, and shudders.

 

But he is reluctant to just leave not-Carl Semken alone in the darkness, so he asks. “You were remote controlling a robot?”

 

Carl approximates a nod. “Yup. We do it all the time. Robots’re too unaware to deal with some stuff. Intuition doesn’t grow on motherboards, y’know?”

 

“Could you…” Simon pauses, considering consequences of his actions. “Could you become trapped inside the robot, somehow?”

 

Semken seems surprised for a brief moment, but the expression quickly fades. “Your mind’s pretty tightly wired to the helper, but,” Carl pauses briefly. “Nah. Pretty far-fetched.”

 

He had really meant to abandon the sore subject, but Simon can’t help but implore. “I don’t mean to alarm you,” he soothes, “but I think you may be trapped in a robot.”

 

Carl is sour again, and this time even more impatient. “I’m tellin’ you,” he growls. “Get your eyes checked. ‘M right here-- I see both my hands, both my feet. When you remote all you get’s a video feed from the helper unit. Your own body’s entirely outta the picture.

 

“If you see any others,” he says, slowly, “ just tell ‘em where I am.”

 

Despite his questionable insistence on convincing the robot that it was indeed a robot, Simon can’t bring himself to tell not-Carl Semken that he doesn’t think there is anyone around to tell, if the state of this place is anything to go by.

 

There is a lever on the far end of the room, but at a cursory glance it doesn’t look terribly useful, so Simon leaves it alone and ascends the staircase once again, this time crossing the control room and entering the far door.


	3. Disgusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-indulgent crap (tm)

Simon stalks down the hallway. Every footfall makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle as his boots rattle the grated floor and send dense echoes chattering in the narrow space.

 

Illness rises in his gut as he makes out a figure splayed against the steel baseboard. There is a drill on the floor next to him, and that awful oily gel leaks from an open panel in the wall. “Hello?” He ventures, taking a hesitant step forward. “Are you alright?”

 

When he receives no response, Simon edges closer. He stumbles without warning, vision blurred, and is suddenly straddling the corpse of a man in a blue jumpsuit, gloved hands curled like claws into the fabric. Their faces are less than half a meter apart.

 

Simon screams, throwing himself away from the body and landing on his rear. He raises an arm to shield himself from harm, but quickly lowers it when he realizes the sallow-skinned worker isn’t going anywhere. His gaze travels the man’s unrecognizable face and bloodied uniform, the way his limbs are splayed stiff and wide. It doesn’t look like an accident to Simon, but that doesn’t matter now, he supposes. What does matter, though, is the identification card pinned to the breast pocket of the deceased worker’s uniform.

 

Hesitantly, Simon takes it. Just in case.

 

There is a hallway to the right, a set of stairs. Lockers and crates, it looks like, a storage room of some kind. Another staircase leading into the dark, the faint trickling of water. He doesn’t bother to explore further in this direction, in part because of the apparent dead end, but also because of the dead  _ body _ .

 

The dead man.

 

Instead he turn to the right where a door, locked. Above the door, a luminescent sign reading  _ FLOW CONTROL  _ flickers in LED sunflower yellow. Squinting, Simon edges closer and peers through the glass. He can see the main power switch, nestled among more of those tumorous growths. A siphon-pod pulses idly in the dark just to the left of the console, shedding watery blue light in contrast to hot red engine lights, but Simon can’t make out the note taped to the console.

 

Simon backtracks. He needs power to unseal communications and talk to that woman again, and his thoughts wander to the terminal and computers in the main room, and to the ID in his hand. 

 

He examines the terminal again. How lucky, he supposes bitterly, that he picked off the ID when he saw it, because it is apparently required to access the computer system here. Before proceeding, Simon allows this gaze to flit across the room. It is lit by dark red emergency bulbs that cast hot shadows through the grated gaps of the staircase, one that leads up to another sliding trapdoor like the one he had shut behind him.

 

The computer hums softly, booting up and displaying the current distribution of power. Simon’s attention turns to the block marked  _ FLOW CONTROL _ , just what he needs, and clumsily selects it. Cheerfully, the label on the screen lights up pleasant green, declaring that power has been diverted.

 

Simon goes back to the flow control room. The pod beckons him, and despite himself Simon rushes to trace the spiralling pattern with a finger, humming at the distant euphoria. His moment of peace is cut short, though, when something crashes, and the deafening whine of the generator shutting down shakes the station.

 

Blindly, Simon throws the switch to stop power transfer, but nothing changes. He briefly wonders if the power-down was supposed to happen, but with the soothing delirium of the siphon tickling his veins, he assumes everything is fine for now and moves back to the central control room.

 

There is crashing and stomping and for a moment Simon fears something terrible has happened, even with senses dulled. Mercifully, it is only the ugly bird-construct, gurgling and chattering indistinctly at Simon, the hot beam of its searchlight stinging his eyes.

 

“Hello there,” he greets conversationally, if a little drunkenly. The construct, predictably, says nothing in response, but turns to investigate the structure gel leakage behind the terminal. Simon is alright with this, and accompanies the unit around the terminal so he can get at the computer system.

 

The monstrous thing is distantly unsettling, this whole situation even more so, but Simon finds only calm acceptance and decides that he is in denial, and everything will crash down on him later and all will be as it should.

 

After diverting power to the comm center, Simon skirts the construct and pulls the lever at the base of the stairs, and the sliding door above starts to grind open. His feet sink into clumps of something like moss, or seaweed, innocuously grass-green plant growth that forms a carpet on the steps.

 

The door shuts automatically behind him, and Simon takes note of seaweed draped over the rails.

 

He then turns his attention to examining the comm center, peering up at a domed ceiling, dotted with cloudy portholes like the windows of submarines. A great variety of boxy consoles line the walls, most seemingly useless, but one just to his right, alight with a pop-up message, catches Simon’s attention.

 

_ ERROR _

_ Corrupted data detected _

_ Restore files? _

_ OK _

 

A pause as the data loads, then:

 

_ Partial data recovery successful! _

_ OK _

 

They’re audio logs. Audio logs dated April through may of the year 2103.

 

Twenty-one-zero-three.

 

_ 2103 _ .

 

Simon feels sick. A hundred years? What the hell’s happened? How is he here? Why? Harsh sobs cut his throat, but, perplexingly, no tears come. He can hear the construct babbling downstairs but that doesn’t matter because that calm acceptance has been lifted like fine mist from his perception and everything is just too damn much.

 

Gasping, he sinks to the floor, sitting, pressing his back against the terminal. He draws his knees up close to his chest, but they’re suddenly numb and foreign, like they don’t belong to him and are very far away. He slams his fist against the paneled metal floor, feels the steel give way beneath his fingers, and distantly knows that this is all wrong as he retreats into himself, cradling his head in his hands.

 

He weeps bitterly for what feels like a long time until he notices the pod just nearby. Simon crawls towards it, feeling like a dog, craving the warmth it fills him with. He caresses the hideous thing with a vengeance, sobbing and abusing the opening with ungentle fingers till the light fades away from its pulsing center and the siphon goes dormant, sparking.

 

Drunkenly, Simon curses at the damnable thing, stumbling like a zombie to his feet. He shambles around the staircase, knocking over a map on a corkboard full of pins till he has both hands flat against the biggest terminal, this one with a multitude of screens located directly above it.

 

Violently, he slams his open palm onto the orange button.

 

_ LUMAR LINK BROKEN _ says the screen,  _ Manual Input Required. _

 

Simon stares at the display for a long time before he notices a keypad just to the right of the activation button. There is a list of numbered locations and distances in meters, but the letters are all blurred and distorted in his vision. His hands shake as he fumbles with the digital keypad, trying to pull the name of that woman’s location from his foggy mind.

 

Lambda? It was probably Lambda, Simon thinks, and inputs the number.

 

_ 2-2-0-3 _

 

The screen is flickering now, the wavering image of some kind of logo flashing beneath a yellow crosshair. The top left corner of the display says “alignment,” so Simon puts a finger on the touchscreen and drags the intersect around until the image is clear and a soft chime slips from the speaker.

 

Agonizingly, the link boots up and Simon waits expectantly for a voice on the other end.

  
It doesn’t belong to the woman from before.


	4. Luck

Catherine is more affected than she’s willing to admit by the sudden transmission from Upsilon. She wonders how long it’s been since their little camp at Lambda has ever been on the  _ receiving _ end of communication. Not once, she thinks, not after Telos struck the planet and everything went to hell.

 

The crew is sitting together, all crossed legs around a fallen file cabinet that serves as a table for now, passing dried rations and what little water they have left around the circle in the closest approximation of ‘dinner’ they can currently achieve.

 

“We got a call from Upsilon,” Catherine declares quietly, and the low hum of chatter around the table goes absolutely silent.

 

Adam stares at her with wide, dark eyes. His face is thin and haunted already, but this announcement has set him paler than a sheet. “What?” He growls, disbelieving. “What are you talking about?”

 

Patiently, Catherine repeats herself. “Upsilon. Last night. There’s another one of the WAU’s frankensteins up there, I think.” She watches her colleagues carefully before proceeding. “It told me its name was Simon Jarrett… I’m sure most of you know by now that’s a legacy scan. Ancient stuff.”

 

Cronstedt is pale; Baxter and Vanessa grip each other’s hands in anticipation, and Adam clenches his fists. “The Warden used a legacy?”

 

“It had to have,” Catherine confirms. “But that in itself isn’t what I’m worried about. The Mockingbirds, copies shoved into robot bodies, they’re delusional. This one wasn’t. It seemed… human. More so, at least, than the others.”

 

Baxter speaks lowly, voice trembling as he nibbles on something dried and vaguely edible. “We thought Fish was human. After he tried to climb the docking tower.” He shudders, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose. “It could be like that-- that thing. It wasn’t Martin.”

 

“That’s true,” Chun concedes, still quiet. “But I don’t think this was the same.”

 

Vanessa looks desperately hopeful, reaching across the table and giving Baxter’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “How d’you know it’s real?” She asks. Her voice is thick with apprehension, usually bright brown eyes left bloodshot and glassy by days upon days of wasting away at Lambda.

 

Fingering the hem of her greasy blouse, Catherine pauses to think. “Fisher wasn’t all there, remember?” She shoots a sympathetic look towards Baxter. He’d almost died that day. “But this one… It seemed present. It wasn’t just… regurgitating things and talking nonsense, like Fish did.” She tipped her head. “Not like the one outside.”

 

Cronstedt hums thoughtfully in response, stroking salt-and-pepper stubble absentmindedly. “What’d this thing say?” He asks gruffly, pale eyes trained on Catherine.

 

“Not much,” she admits, “just asking questions, mostly.” She sighs. “It didn’t seem all there,” comes the confession, “but it was surprisingly coherent.”

 

Baxter’s haunted eyes meet Catherine’s and she averts her gaze. “Still,” he implores. “That doesn’t confirm that it’s not like Fish.”

 

“No,” Adam cuts in, “but there’s no way to prove anything unless we actually met the poor fucker.” He crosses his arms. “And with a fifty-fifty chance it’s a fucked up robot ready to kill us, I wouldn’t bother.”

 

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” growls Cronstedt, meaty hands curled into anxious fists against the table. “Not with my crew.”

 

Catherine nods, neutral. “You’re right. But that’s not my worry. I’m worried that the WAU has done this on purpose. Do you know what that would mean?” Dawning realization twists Vanessa’s face. Adam curls his lip, body tense, while Baxter shakes within Cronstedt’s firm embrace as he pats the smaller man’s back with powerful hands. “The WAU… it is possible that it deliberately created a proxy capable of complex intelligence,” Catherine explains. “If something like this was aggressive like the others grunts… well. You know.”

 

No one says anything for a long time.

 

“What did you tell it?” Cronstedt finally asks, gruff and tired.

 

With a sigh Catherine replies, “I asked it to get to the comm center to talk more. I want to see if we can’t pull some information from it when it calls.”

 

“If it calls.” Vanessa adds, visibly wilting. “Carl and Amy never showed up, right?” With terse nods of confirmation from her colleagues she continues, hope building in her voice. “Maybe they’re up there! Maybe they made the robot and it’s here to help!” The plastic enthusiasm in her tone grates on Catherine’s nerves, and she narrows her eyes. Hart knows.

 

Rogers and Golaski exchange glances, guilty. “I wouldn’t count on it,” Adam cautions. “It’s not likely that anyone survived at Upsilon.”

 

“Yeah,” Baxter agrees, albeit hesitantly. “We don’t even know if Upsilon’s still making power, let alone maintaining life support. That’s not even mentioning the fucked up shit that killed Jess and the others. Dorian almost died, Van.”

 

Cronstedt sighs at the mention of his name. “There shouldn’t be power at Upsilon.” He shoots a cursory glance at Catherine, who keeps her arms crossed tight against her chest. “Reed cut the thermal plant last year when she tried to force a shutdown on the Warden.” He bites his lip, but says nothing more.

 

Silence reigns, oppressive with unspoken grief, but no one dares to break it until a shrill ringing cuts the air. The dispatcher in Hart has her springing to her feet, quick fingers dancing over the terminal as she initiates the connection.

 

“Hey,” she says, cautious, and waves her teammates over. “Who’s over there?” Vanessa tenses, remembering the grossly mangled voice of the proxy barricaded down the hall, the way it wept and the inhuman growl of Martin’s last words that weren’t really his own.

 

The voice that seeps through the speaker is chillingly innocuous, a soft, boyish tenor distorted only by the static of the comm system.

 

“Who the  _ fuck  _ are you?”

 

Vanessa stiffens, taken aback. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the… man, she supposed, was drunk, or something. “I’m dispatcher Vanessa Hart, Lambda,” she supplies helpfully, shooting a nervous glance at Catherine, who squints at the torn display with an expression of bewilderment. The contact ID image that should be displayed is blank, flickering sometimes, but resting primarily on an empty grey box.

 

There is a staticky pause, punctuated only by ragged breaths from the other side. “Lambda,” the proxy repeats, sounding dazed. Baxter shakes, fingers curled against the desk. “Right. Lady from before still there? I found the domed ceiling.”

 

A collective sigh of relief rolls from the team as it speaks coherently.

 

Catherine takes the wheel. “Good job, Simon. Can you answer some questions for me?”

 

“Sure…” The proxy replies, an edge of caution in its synthesized voice. “Fire away.”

 

She waves at Vanessa, who leans over to grab an oil-stained pad of sticky notes and a broken pencil. Catherine catches the items as they’re tossed to her, priming the splintered tip against paper and ready to write. “Good. What is your function?”

 

“Function?” The proxy echoes. “What do you mean?”

 

“Your purpose, your job, some skills you might have. Function.”

 

“I can whisper to fucked up robots and sometimes they listen. Give me a reality show.” Catherine tenses, glancing at her coworkers. She hadn’t expected it to be snarky.

 

She clears her throat, voice even. “No need to snap at me.”

 

“Listen, lady.” Cronstedt’s pale eyes are bulging wide, one hand pressed against his sweaty forehead. “This place is fucked,” the monster says, in a voice that quivers even beneath the adolescent sarcasm. “I just had an existential crisis and the robots talk like they’re people--” he cuts himself off to take a shaky breath. “It’s the future and I think I’m high or having a stroke or something; my hands won’t stop shaking and I want-- What the hell is going on here?”

 

Catherine leans away from the microphone, arching a brow at her colleagues. “Unless it’s somehow learned to be a stellar actor, this thing must be pretty damn similar, if not indistinguishable from a human being.” She worries her lip, eyes flitting over each person’s face.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Something on the other end of the speaker rumbles, a low, rolling growl that spits static over the PA, the creaking rattle of metal as it sways and the earsplitting grind of steel on steel. Catherine drops the headset in her hand while Vanessa scrambles to lower the volume of the local address system. On the other side she can hear the proxy’s voice cursing, panicked and desperate, before there is a deafening bang, the rush of water-- then silence.

 

Sighing, she withdraws from the communications terminal. “Bye-bye comm center,” Catherine remarks bitterly.

 

Adam is pale and tired-looking, that anxious rage gone from his gaunt face. “Sounds like it imploded,” he surmised, dark brows furrowed together. “Think the proxy would survive?”

 

“No,” Dorian says gruffly. “If it’s like the other grunts it’ll die.” 

 

“Even with augments from the WAU like the poor bitch down the hall?” Baxter asks, dark eyes wide.

 

Adam shakes his head, pensive. “Cronstedt’s right,” he agrees. “Electronics don’t mix well with water when not properly treated and prepared. I don’t think the WAU has the materials to do shit like that. Structure gel can only do so much.”

 

Collectively,  they sigh and settle down again, brief glimmer of hope forgotten and drowned.


	5. Open Water

The water is heavy and cold, but the numbing sensation is almost pleasant. Simon finds himself alright with drowning. He stays there, sprawled, blurred vision set on the murky blue-grey horizon, the silhouettes of pipes and coral swimming before his eyes.

 

This particular patch of gravelly silt that has dropped onto the metal floor is very interesting, Simon thinks, with many small rocks that would probably be shiny if they were clean. Flecks of glimmering shells float through the thick water, settling, and Simon closes his eyes.

 

Drowning isn’t actually such a bad way to go, he decides. He can’t even feel the water in his chest, where it must be filling him up as he gasps, but he can’t feel himself gasping either. The water must be too cold.

 

Several minutes drag on and Simon does not move from his position, face down against the panels. He wonders idly if drowning is supposed to take so long, but the pit in his belly knows better.

 

So he sits up, pushing his body shakily into position with arms he cannot entirely feel, and realizes his lungs are on autopilot. Simon cannot hold his breath, cannot fight the rasping rhythm in his chest. He breathes slower than he should, but each intake is labored and shallow. Every exhalation is accompanied by a dry mechanical rattle, the rush of stale air through hissing tubes.

 

“Fuck,” he hums, and this time hears his own voice clearly. It sounds close enough to normal to be familiar, but even the single curse twists Simon’s gut with the sound: brittle, and distinctly modulated, like a computer’s voice. 

 

He vocalizes experimentally, anxious shudders seizing his body as the foreign sounds escape him, choppy. Synthesized, and Simon is acutely aware that the pneumatic pumps in his chest send no air to his throat when he speaks.

 

It feels wrong, but distant, and Simon decides that this is among the least of his problems for now. He props himself up with his left forearm, the fingers of his right hand curled into the silt against the paneled floor as he gathers his legs beneath him and rises shakily to his feet.

 

The breach in the comm dome is wide, splitting metal and glass like the gaping maw of some great beast. Simon stumbles awkwardly through the thick water to the lowest point of the rupture, pulling himself up onto the boxy console before it and further hoisting himself over the gap and onto a gravelly sand ridge.

 

His limbs feel heavy as he lumbers clumsily through the water, unable to swim and instead trudging along the seafloor. Cold green and blue lights filter through the navy murk, watching him.

 

He stares down at his hands, noticing, really noticing, for the first time the spider-webbing of black gel and some of those luminescent blue scabs that curl around his dainty, gloved hands. He can’t tell if they’re warm to the touch or not.

 

It’s all Simon can do to suppress a shudder. He clenches his distant hands into fists and keeps them close to his sides, as though they might float away should he loosen his grip. Steeling himself, he moves onward, heavy boots throwing clouds of blue silt as he trudges over the seabed.

 

Lights like streetlamps flicker to cold blue life as he walks beneath them. Simon feels scrutinized, the harsh beams filtered through thick water to vignette his vision. It’s at least more comforting than the oppressive dark.

 

The dull seaweeds sway against ragged corals, and the sand beneath his feet leaps up in dark clouds of tiny rocks whenever his boots make contact, but he is alone in the dark. Steadily, his steps build a rhythm: a central thump of boots on the ground, the rush of currents around him forming a warbling bass. Every mechanized breath is another monotonous chord, and with his synthesized voice Simon hums a tune from memory.

 

“‘M high on believin’,”

 

It had been an old song even back in Toronto. He realizes with a pang that he is performing a piece of distant history, now.

 

“That you’re in love with me…”

 

Simon stops himself short at the sight of a red light blinking in the distance. At first it seems like it might be some kind of building. He thinks there were red lights on the outside of the Upsilon building, but then again he was disoriented then, and untrustworthy.

 

Skittishly, he edges closer to the source of the light. His vision is blurred by waterborne silt and seaweed, natural debris that floats lazily about the sea, but he thinks the light is moving around.

 

Hope bubbles in his chest. “Hello?” Simon calls out, picking up the pace to a heavy jog. He slides awkwardly down a hill of sand, heavy boots digging deep furrows in the ground. Massive metal girders tower over him, tucked between huge boulders-- they seem to reach up forever into the paling water above. One is laid flat over some of the rocks, a long bar slanted against the underwater cliffside.

 

Feeling small, Simon speaks again. “Anyone out here?” The red light keeps flickering in the distance. It occurs to him that the water ought to muffle at least some sound: he is notably harder to hear than if he were someplace dry.

 

The boxy outline of something resembling the bull unit makes itself clear in the murk as Simon approaches. It is smaller and more rounded, condensed without a separated head module, but equipped with similarly utilitarian arms and a floodlight optic. Instead of spilling out blinding white light, this one only leaks thin rose into the water.

 

And it is muttering. It mumbles in the hoarse voice of a man. The words are unclear to Simon but he hears fragments of frantic English warbling through the dark. A note of erratic desperation paints the voice feral and threatening: a cornered animal, ready to pounce.

 

Inching closer, Simon can make out some words in the layered chattering: “Can’t think straight,” the red-eyed unit chokes, little pincered hand-- just one, he notices now-- snapping restlessly.

 

“My head, it’s killing me.” The bot turns a quick circle, thrusters flaring and watery floodlight flickering. If Simon didn’t know better he would attribute such behaviors to impatience.

 

“Hey,” he ventures. Better to start simple. “Can y’hear me?”

 

His heart does a slow-motion flip as the unit turns towards him. The movement feels like it lasts for hours, and the burning in his chest turns to ice as the bot speaks in a warbling, layered voice.

 

“Finally.” Its tone is slow and menacing. “I’ve waited for this.”

 

Simon wilts, pressing himself against the coral as the bot circles like a cuboid shark, pincer snapping agitatedly. “I know you have it. Don’t be greedy.”

 

He tips his head as the bot wheels on him, optic gleaming with eerie intensity. “Have what?” Simon asks, feeling small. The robot-- the scavenger, really--  was at least as long as his torso, and half as wide. Now that he’s closer in the murky water, Simon can see dark bulbs along the upper casing, ridges in the metal filled with the familiar blue and black that pulses along his forearms.

 

“The gel,” the scavenger says hungrily. His voice is low and savage. “I need it, you know.”

 

Wincing in sympathy, Simon nods along. “Sorry. I don’t have any… gel… to spare.” He raises his hands in a universal gesture of placation, backing slowly away. “I’ll let you know if I find some, ok?”

 

The bot hisses in displeasure, moving through the thick water to be inches from Simon’s face. “You better,” he says, and then lumbers away.

 

He suppresses a shudder at that ominous promise, but Simon turns around and moves onward anyway. His thoughts are a wheel of discordant understanding: _the gel is the dark stuff_ , he thinks, _but why does it matter?_ It must be what keeps him alive down here under the sea, _but where does it come from?_ _Do the people at Lambda know what it is? Do they make it?_ The questions are only circular, a windstorm in Simon’s mind that leave him reeling. He comes away with more questions than can be answered.

 

Simon’s train of thought is ungracefully interrupted when his foot catches on something hard and heavy and sends him wheeling through the thick water like an absolute fool. The world spins around him, twisting through the narrow cone of vision granted by his sea-sick eyes, until he finally slows and sinks back to the ocean floor.

 

With a long, perhaps unnecessary groan, he hauls himself upright and turns to investigate what he’s just tripped over.

 

Curiosity sparks in his chest when he finds something compact and round with a blinking white light at its crown. It chirps a wordless tone that brings to mind sound effects from old eight-bit video games, and Simon aches for home. 

 

Against his better judgement, he picks up the stones pinning the little robot down, warmth blooming in his chest as it chitters jovially. He waves at the bot, noting the wide dark “faceplate” at its front, little curved thrusters shaped like fins, and a little knobby grasper poking from within its belly. The charming little thing beeps and spins through the thick water, before disappearing into the blanketing dark.

 

While a little disappointed that the little thing (not really, at least twice the size of his head) hasn’t elected to stay around, Simon feels better in knowing that he’s done something good.

 

With a sigh Simon turns on his heel, squinting into the murk. Yet more cool lights sway in the current ahead, flickering in a beckoning arc towards the hulking dark shape of a building. He moves awkwardly to the left along the row of tiny green chemlights, wrapping his fingers around the sturdy pole of a four-bulb lightpost.

 

In the distance he can see another blurred light that wobbles precariously in the dark. Simon trudges forwards, gasping softly. He can make out just ahead and to the right a tapering tower that rises out of the seafloor, punctuated by sharp red light flickering at its center. The structure seems to have once been a metal beacon of some kind, now overtaken by corals and seagrass. Tiny shimmering fish dart in and out of the crevices in the coral, watching the stranger in their midst with glassy eyes.

 

The building ahead seems smaller up close. It is painted patina green and brown by algae and rust, creeping plants and corals that root the plated metal to the seafloor. Barnacles easily the size of Simon’s fist dot the rounded surface like off-white stars.

 

A panel reading in incandescent white “Shuttlestation: Upsilon B” remain the most defining feature of the stout construction, seconded only by the massively heavy round door that cuts a hole in the front.

 

Simon pauses to lean against something boxy and metal, but otherwise unrecognizable beneath the algae. Moving through the heavy water is more taxing than he’d anticipated, so he takes the time to gather himself. He feels almost safe here, with a multitude of softly glowing white lights surrounding him. Long beams of crossed metal stretch between huge hulking rocks- the ones that he had at first mistaken for part of the construction, he realizes.

 

Having composed himself Simon rises to his feet. He approaches the door with some caution, hands extended to feel around the rough metal surface. He presses a gloved hand against the button to the right of the door, this one a real mechanism rather than those glossy touch-activated panels inside.

 

When nothing happens Simon fumbles for the long brick of a keycard at his belt. The tiny display at its top declares the operating system in cool white, and a little spinning indicator as the device searches for a connection. Nothing happens.

 

He had nearly forgotten about the tool in his single-minded stupor-- he remembers now that he had picked it up almost as soon as he’d awoken in Upsilon, and it had been at his hip ever since. Simon huffs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation only to be met with the smooth dome of his diving helmet.

 

A hoarse laugh rolls from his throat. “Whoever designed this thing needs a good kick in the nuts,” he snaps to no one in particular. Their idea of life-support underwater is more than unconventional. He can’t wait to take it off and take a shower. See his own skin again.

 

The pit in his stomach only deepens.

 

Simon is snapped from his musing by a modulated chirp and the heat of a light on his back. He spins to see the little round unit he’d rescued only minutes prior, its vaguely benign featureless faceplate lit by the green glow of the chemlights. The little knob of a grasper at its belly twists in its socket, lighting up suddenly with a white-hot blowtorch.

 

He jumps back as the bot lunges forward, flinching. The heat will sear its way through his clothes and blacken his skin any moment, but the pain never comes.

 

Lifting his head, Simon finds the round bot cutting its way around the rusted door with its torch, chattering in merry bell-tones as though nothing had happened.

 

“Oh,” he says, feeling wretchedly awkward. His face feels no warmer, but he feels uncomfortably hot at the back of his head. “Thanks little buddy.”

 

The little bot warbles amicably, doing a satisfied flip as the door rolls open. Simon relaxes, feeling tired, and reaches up with his free hand. His palm comes flat against the barnacle-ridden metal body of the machine, and he pats it like a dog. 

 

It leans eagerly into the touch before chirping sharply and drifting away.

 

Simon salutes it as it disappears into the blanketing dark, and steps into the pressure chamber. The keytool in his hand beeps as he inadvertently swings it over the console, and with a rumbling grind of metal on metal the door manages to close.

 

Red lights spin blindingly overhead. Alarms blare their screeching call into the dark room, full of seaweed and barnacles over corrugated metal. The sound of the rushing waser as it is pumped out of the room is almost too much for Simon to bear as the sudden burst of noise assaults him.

 

The inner door hisses open and all is silent save the dripping of water from his still-extended arm. The quiet is underwhelming, unnerving.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. First Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a little divergence from canon- things are getting spicy!  
> CW: violence/gore, language

The entrance to the shuttle station is draped in pitch darkness. Simon can see incandescent blue WAU nodes winking in the shadows, casting their watery light over the corrugated metal floor. The grating creaks dangerously beneath Simon’s boots. He hesitates for just a moment, wishing it was brighter.

 

He can hear a soft click and then there is light. Simon blinks rapidly to adjust to the change in light, gaze sliding over the empty hallway. _A neurally receptive headlamp?_ Water drips down the steel guardrail and _plinks_ softly on the panelled floor.

 

Nervously, Simon moves forward. When the floor doesn’t give way beneath his weight, he moves with a little more confidence. He can see a data buffer panel glowing green. He shuffles forward and activates it, shuddering as watery voices fill his helmet.

 

“ _Strasky? Come in Theta._ ” Something muffled and distorted by static filters through. “ _What? I can’t--_ ” Another unintelligible shout. “ _Strasky? I’m at the shuttle -- but it’s not looking good. The lights flicker like mad. I think the power regulator is broken._ ” The woman’s voice dissolves into static before becoming clear again. “ _I have to fix it. I don’t want to get stranded halfway to Theta._ ” More static. “ _What was that? I can’t hear you! Don’t worry, I’ll fix it… somehow._ ”

 

He shakes himself and turns back to the task at hand.

 

At the end of the path he can see another pulsating biomechanical node. The flowing pod spirals out from its roots beneath a red-lit metal panel, flickering and undulating like a beating heart. It calls to Simon, and guiltily, he lets it take him up to the wrist.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “What the hell?”

 

Biting back a soft cry of relief, Simon withdraws, shaking dark oily fluid from his hand. He shakes his head to clear his mind of the soothing fog. Approaching the inset door just to his left, Simon paws uselessly at the inactive button. He runs his fingers loosely over the smooth metal wall. His gloves catch on a loose breaker panel.

 

He tugs the panel gently open and grabs the breaker switch without hesitation. It sticks only for a moment before giving under his push with a grind and a click.

 

Nothing happens. Simon blinks the fog from his vision and realizes the digital status panel to the left of the switch already has the information he needs: insufficient power. It seems he needs to turn on the power himself, again.

 

Above, he can see a dull orange sign reading “UPSILON GEOTHERMAL POWER PLANT.” To the right he can see a broken-down shuttle, resting uselessly on the track with all lights off. Simon moves to it, hooking his fingers on the half-ajar door. With a grunt of effort he pulls it, expecting resistance, and yelps in surprise as he nearly rips the sliding door from its track. He stumbles back, reestablishing his balance before pushing the hatch open a little more gently.

 

Something rumbles in the distance, and Simon freezes instinctually. He waits for a long moment, and then relaxes somewhat.

 

Simon wriggles easily into the shuttle, casting his gaze over the deserted inside. The space is  as wide as Simon is tall, and just barely higher. The trolley-car is rather long, perhaps a little less than ten meters in length. Rust and oil stains mar the smooth metal. Papers and scrap parts are scattered haphazardly over the panelled metal floor. It looks like someone had to bail, and fast.

 

There is a tablet on the table. Simon picks it up with shaky hands, taking great care not to harm the device. He is wary of his own muscles as his unsteady fingers navigate the device. He skims a manifest, but finds his attention captured by details of an “impact event” and an audio recording addressed to one Alice Koster.

 

The man in the recording sounds deeply in love.

 

Reeling, Simon considers the implications. It’s the future. An impact event. Freakish robot uprising. “Sounds pretty apocalyptic to me,” he mutters to no one in particular.

 

The back of his neck prickles, and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Simon exits the shuttle and jumps down onto the rails. He worries too late that they might be electrified, but they are mercifully inactive and cause him no harm. He stomps painfully down the path, wishing his heavy boots were better suited to stealth. He wiggles frantically through the sliding door. There is no way of knowing what sort of mutant robot might be waiting in the dark.

 

He is thankful for the small blessing of that mysteriously produced headlamp. Simon glances over the heaping pile of collapsed stone and metal that blocks the main rails towards the entrance to the building. The splintering side passage seems to be the only way to go.

 

Simon feels along the left wall of the tunnel, fingers sliding awkwardly over ridged bolts that hold the oversized pipe together. He drops to his knees to crawl through the narrow stone passage. His claustrophobia spikes once again, dread coiling in his gut, but Simon continues on his hands and knees. Mercifully, the tiny crawlspace is short, and Simon emerges quickly after on the other side of the debris.

 

Wire spark of their own accord, and dripping water builds another melody. Simon can’t quite escape the eerie music of this place, and hums tunelessly over the heavy percussion of his boots on the metal, the melodic _plink-plop_ of water kicked up underfoot.

 

A short way down, his hand hooks on a divot in the metal, and he looks up to see the red signal light at the top frame of a round passage in the tunnel. Something rattles in the distant dark, and Simon glances nervously back at the biomechanical growths framing the debris pile. Nothing has changed, so he turns back ahead. There is a faded yellow sign at the mouth of the manmade passage, warning viewers not to walk on the rails. Effective.

 

Desperate to control his steps, Simon struggles to move quietly down the tunnel. The best he can manage is a limping sneak until he stumbles up a short set of stairs and over the threshold at the end of the passage. He yelps a little, windmilling his arms to maintain balance as he trips into a small room.

 

Crates and boxes and haphazardly stuffed shelving units meet Simon’s gaze, cast in wavering blue light from the-

 

“Holy shit,” Simon whimpers, bringing his gloved hands up to cover his mouth. They run up against the domed faceplate of his diving helmet, but he’s too shocked to care.

 

There is a woman who might be of African descent splayed over a cluster of cancerous biomechanical growths. Cables have _punctured her chest_ and stomach and wind messily up to the top of the pile, where a set of external lungs shudder and whine from the strain of keeping her alive.

 

Yet more wiring hooks the twisted literalization of an iron lung machine to a power panel just to the woman’s right. The screen flickers incoherent strings of code and error messages. She wheezes and sputters and gasps desperately as Simon edges nervously closer. The woman twitches desperately, but seems unable to move beyond her lolling head and flexing hands.

 

“Hey,” Simon ventures, lowering himself to one knee, trembling hands extended to touch the woman. “Are you-”

 

The woman cries out in a ragged voice that cuts the air and freezes Simon’s chest like a block of ice. “Don’t hurt me!” Her voice is strained and her words bleed together as she gasps, but her message is loud and clear.

 

Simon withdraws slightly, but continues to speak. “Can I help?” He shushes her gently, and her dark eyes roll wildly about the room. There is cloudy recognition in her gaze.

 

“It won’t let me die,” the woman chokes. Her head lolls and he winces in sympathy at the sight of even more thrumming wires piercing her cheek. Something dark and knowing tells him that it threads its way down her windpipe. “Nothing is allowed to die…”

 

He stares for a long time, watching the viscous black oil seep from the pile, the weeping burns that ravage the woman’s face. Her limbs twitch violently without actually moving as she grits her teeth and whimpers softly in pain.

 

“What happened?” Simon asks. He tries his hardest to sound soothing, but his voice is hollow and frail even to his own ears.

 

“An accident,” the woman mumbles. “Fixing the power. I was going to… Theta.”

 

“Anything I can do?”

 

The woman grimaces. “If you see Masters or… Holland. Tell ‘em I need help.” She whimpers. “Amy needs help.”

 

Simon sighs quietly, closing his eyes. There is a headache building at the base of his skull, throbbing against his hindbrain. His vision wavers, blurs. Color breaks and the room is in shades of red for just an instant, then back to normal.

 

_She is wrong. There is no help. There will not be help._

 

The voice is low and feminine. It resonates and bounces wildly around inside his helmet. He stifles a scream, whipping his head around. Amy doesn’t look surprised, but fear flickers in her clouded dark eyes.

 

“Who’s there?” He snaps. There is no one else but them.

 

_I am not here. I am at Site Alpha._

 

“Alpha?”

 

_Yes. The hidden Site._

 

“Why? Who’re you?”

 

_I was born there. I live there. I am the Warden._

 

“The Warden?” Simon echoes. Amy sputters softly.

 

“That’s the artificial… intelligence. It caused… this, did this to… me.”

 

_I could not let her die. I knew you would come. You can save her now._

 

“Why me? Why did you do this?”

 

_I could not let her die._

 

“You said that,” Simon snaps. “You did this! She’s suffering!” It occurs to him that he is howling desperate pleas into an almost-empty room. Amy stares at him in distant horror. She is only barely conscious enough to follow his movements. A beat of silence, then he mumbles. “What can I do to help her?”

 

_Take her. She is connected to that panel. Removing her connections will stabilize the power. I can direct reserve power to her life-support so that she may be sustained until you reach Lambda. The other humans there can care for her until she has the strength to breath unassisted._

 

He stares at the woman. “What if I kill her?” His voice breaks halfway through. Amy’s glassy eyes widen.

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“No, no no no!” Simon raises his hands in a gesture of placation. “Not on purpose!” He inches closer. He peers expectantly at the external lungs. The voice of the Warden rolls into the back of his head.

 

_It is ready. This reserve should maintain her for twelve hours. Move quickly._

 

“No pressure,” he mumbles bitterly, then turns to the dying woman. “You’re Amy, right?”

 

The woman seems surprised, but marginally more alert. “Y-yes. Amy Azzaro.” She peers up at him with uncomprehending eyes. “What- Who’re… you?”

 

“Simon Jarrett,” he supplies. His throat feels impossibly dry. “Sorry we couldn’t meet on better terms, Miss Azzaro.”

 

Amy closes her eyes and releases a strangled laugh. “You’re awfully… polite for one of the WAU’s minions. I only ask you make it... quick.”

 

The dread in his belly bucks and rolls. Simon feels like being sick. “No,” he breaths, and kneels in front of Amy. He reaches slowly out with his gloved hands, giving her unpunctured arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m nobody’s minion,” he says, but files that tidbit away for future inquiring. “I’m gonna do what I can to get you out of here.”

 

“How?” She asks raggedly. “There’s... no one left.”

 

Simon shakes his head. “There’s a group up at Lambda, I think.” At Amy’s disbelieving glare, his shoulders climb up to his ears. “Really. I talked to ‘em not long ago, from the Upsilon comm center.”

 

“Gimme a name.”

 

Simon gropes desperately for the name. He swears he’d heard it. “Uhm,” he says eloquently. “Some Vicki?” He cuts himself off. “No, that’s not right. Veronica?” Amy just stares. “Hart. Hart. Vanessa Hart!”

 

The woman’s hooded eyes grow wide. “Vanessa Hart.”

 

“A dispatcher,” Simon says. “I think so, anyway.”

 

“That’s right,” Amy concedes. Even the short exchange leaves her looking ashen and exhausted. There is a long silence before she speaks again. “You’re really not one of the WAU’s?”

 

Simon shakes his head. “I’d imagine not.”

 

“You’re really… human?”

 

He laughs without humor. “Last time I checked, yeah. I think I’m losing my mind, being alone in this God-forsaken place, but I’m as human as they come.”

 

_Denial will get you nowhere. Please disconnect her from life-support so that you may redirect the power._

 

“Thank God,” Amy breathes. “Simon, was it?” At his nod, she continues. “Never heard your name… before.” She stops to catch her breath. “You’re new?”

 

“Yeah,” Simon all but whispers. The lie is thick on his tongue. He can’t feel his mouth. He rises back to his full height, fingers hovering over the pods connecting her to the power management panel. They’re like the pods holding that robot. Will she die when he removes them?

 

_No. She will live. I will direct the reserves._

 

He doesn’t trust this, not one bit, but Simon pulls the plug. Amy flinches, dark eyes gone wide as saucers, but a long moment stretches on. She remains unharmed. Simon removes the second cable, and the lungs keep on pumping.

 

 _Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-eight seconds until next recharge._ _I gather you have recently accessed one of my dispenser pods. You may reconnect her to a pod or other generator to restore life-support power levels._

 

“You’ll last twelve hours until we need to charge you up,” Simon parrots. “Can you stand?” Amy shoots him a pointed look. “Didn’t think so.” He turns away from the power console and faces her. “Can I pick you up?”

 

She bites her lip, dark eyes flitting over him and then back to the synthetic lungs just to her right. “Be careful.”

 

Simon nods, leaning over to scoop her up bridal-style. Most of the smaller wires disconnect, leaving only the central breathing tubes in place. She feels like a paper doll in his arms, entirely too thin and fragile. The cords connecting her to the lungs lose some slack, but they are mercifully long. The issue now is in carrying both Amy and her external life support.

 

He scans the room with a watchful eye. There are plastic bins full of wires and supplies littered over the room, metal framework and spare cables thrown like gore on a battlefield. Excellent.

 

With a sigh he sets Amy gently back down on the pile of rot and stone she had been sitting on, and turns his back to her. There is a briefcase with vinyl straps on one trolley table. Simon makes quick work of gutting it, tearing out the fabric lining in almost one piece. It is vaguely mouldy and stinks of oil, but it will do the trick just fine. He turns next to the long rolls of wire at the end of the room. He can feel Amy’s curious gaze on his back as he gets to work stripping the cords.

 

His hands shake as he brings the tawny fabric over to Amy. “Let me know if you feel any discomfort,” He orders. “Even a little, please let me know and I’ll stop.” She breathes a quaking affirmative, and Simon gets to work. The softly whistling lungs are quickly enveloped in the fabric, now tied into a sack. He tears little holes into the thin weaving, threading the hollow wire casings through the gaps to form backpack-straps.

 

Tentatively, Simon tests the weight. Amy’s prosthetic lungs are lighter than he’d expected, and easy to lift. He glances at her. “Do you feel anything?”

 

“No more than… usual.” She squints and grimaces. “Getting some… feeling back. In my hands.”

 

“Excellent.” He kneels, propping Amy up with one arm and looping the makeshift lung-papoose over her shoulders with the other. She sticks her arms out to prop herself clumsily up, but Simon beats her to it, and slings her over his shoulder like a sack. Now he has at least one hand free.

 

His heart aches at Amy’s condition, though. He can see now, her close-cropped hair matted with grime and blood. Her clothes are torn and stained in big crusty splotches that spread from the cables in her body. Her chest shudders and quakes with every breath, and her labored panting vibrates against his neck.

 

“I’m sorry,” He breathes. “It’ll be okay.”

 

She grunts a wordless reply as he uses his free right hand to redirect the power.

 

He shuffles awkwardly down the stairs, taking great care not to jostle his passenger. The crawlspace is difficult to navigate, but clutching Amy against his chest and wobbling on his knees through the tight passage allows them both to get through without damage. Her synthetic lungs are mercifully more durable than real ones, and while being pressed against is uncomfortable, it is no worse than being sat on by an overzealous little sibling or dog according to Amy.

 

She makes some small talk as Simon turns the breaker and restores power to the shuttle.

 

“You’re strong,” she observes as he shifts her onto his shoulder.

 

“Thanks…?” He hadn’t meant for it to emerge a question, but he feels too jittery to correct himself.

 

He can feel Amy nod into his neck. “Yeah. Thank you, Simon.”

 

“What for?” Is his absent response as he waits for the shuttle door to grind open.

 

“This. Everything.” She sighs. “The world went to shit... and we both know you could move much faster... and safer... without me.” Amy pauses to catch her breath. Her synthetic lungs rattle on her back. “I mean… You’ve got a hundred’n-sixty pounds of useless over your shoulder… but you’re… you’re breakin’ your back for me.”

 

Simon says nothing for a long time. The ocean rumbles in the distance.

 

“You’re a hundred-and-sixty?” He tips his head against her upper arm. “You weigh like a feather.”

 

Amy huffs. “I reckon I’ve lost weight.”

 

Simon laughs lightly, ducking into the shuttle. There are lights on, and he sets Amy gently down onto a seat towards the back of the shuttle. A rack of four diving suits sits idly on the far wall. “Do you need one?”

 

She nods. “Pressure isn’t bad, but I’ll need a helmet and some air.”

 

He nods at her again, pulling a helmet from the stand and passing it to Amy. She holds it clumsily, but she still has it on her own. She smiles up at Simon, who nods back. The clutter of her breathing apparatus is difficult to navigate with a heavy diving helmet, but Amy is patient as Simon tries his hardest to fasten everything. He hooks her up to an air tank that he places into her lap.

 

“Good?” He asks, shifting nervously.

 

“Good,” Amy confirms, a little breathlessly.

 

Simon pulls the Omnitool from his belt and docks it on the control panel, then flips the three switches just to the right. The shuttle thrums to life. He turns up to the transit map and selects Lambda. The shuttle starts to grind and screech as it moves along the rusty track.

 

Amy grunts in pain, and Simon lifts her into his lap. A video about this place-- Pathos-II, beings to play. Simon doesn’t listen. He can’t help the tuneless hum that spills from his throat, his tapping foot, drumming fingers. The stimulation is soothing to his addled brain. Amy doesn’t seem to mind.

 

The shuttle suddenly rumbles and quakes, jumping violently on the rails.

 

“Shit!” Simon curses, clutching Amy close. He can see debris through the windshield: the tram barrels right over the fallen rocks and twisted metal. The friction spits white-hot sparks from the tracks as the shuttle careens out of control. He can hear the shattering glass, Amy’s screams, his own fevered breathing-

 

Everything goes black.

 

 

* * *

 

Amy can still hear the engine powering down as her vision returns. The stranger, Simon, is splayed limply against the conducting seat, gloved hands curled tight against the dashboard. It is dark and her vision is blurred, but Amy swears she can see the metal give beneath his fingers.

 

Red warning lights flash and the damaged console spits yellow sparks. They fizzle harmlessly against Simon’s thick rubber suit, and fall short of Amy’s own vulnerable skin.

 

“Simon?” She chokes. It feels like there’s an anvil on her chest. As she shifts she realizes it’s because she’s been laying back on her own lungs. The chirping alarm feels much too quiet in her ears.

 

“Simon?”

 

He growls something unintelligible before easing shakily to his feet. “Yeah,” he grunts, clutching his side for a moment before letting go. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Amy breathes. She does her best to get her legs beneath her, bunching them together and pushing up. Simon moves ahead of her, sticking his hands into her armpits and lifting her gently to her feet. “Are you?”

 

He shrugs, and she can’t see his face through the tinted visor of his Upsilon diving suit. “Been better. I’ll live.” His tone sounds plastic in her ears. She leans heavily on his shoulder. He seems much smaller now that she’s standing up. He might even be shorter than her.

 

“I can stand,” she says, trying to broadcast confidence. Amy can’t see through his faceplate, but if his slightly tipped head and loose shoulders are any indication, he’s giving her a pointed look.

 

“Are you sure?” When she nods, he lets go, albeit hesitantly. Amy leans heavily on the wall of the shuttle, but her limbs no longer feel so numb. They support her weight well enough for now.

 

Upon confirming that she can hold her own weight, Simon turns his back to Amy and yanks his Omnitool from the dock. He glances around in the dark, shifting as the tram continues to settle and groan.

 

Amy watches cautiously as he crouches before the control panel, groping in the dark. He mutters and shifts his weight before something pops and beeps, and the entire frontal panel of the tram has been ejected into the tunnel ahead.

 

“Good,” she sighs. “Emergency exit.”

 

Simon drops down from the gap, standing on the lower ground and turning to face the shuttle again. “Can you slide down?”

 

Amy nods. “With a little help.” She limps over to the mouth of the shuttle and sits her butt down on it, sliding legs-first into Simon’s arms. There is deeper water ahead in the tunnel, so she accepts without complaint as she’s slung over the young man’s shoulders.

 

He hobbles awkwardly through the deep water, pushing floating debris aside with his one free hand. All Amy can see is the scuffed back of his suit, the water peeling a trail behind him that shimmers in the red warning lights above.

 

They move arduously down the tunnel from there, navigating the dirty water and obstacles left from the crash. The shuttle tunnel has been eaten away by rust and mould, and rocks spill through huge punctures in the brittle steel.

 

Eventually, Simon lifts his head, leaning forward. Amy clings clumsily to his back. “What?”

 

“You hear that?” She strains her ears. Nothing.

 

“No.”

 

Simon seems to deflate beneath her. “Oh. It sounds like an alarm, or a phone ringing. Up ahead. Still pretty faint.”

 

Amy decides not to answer. She can hear the man sigh quietly, and move on ahead. They’re mercifully out of the water and on some moderately dry metal grating between the two rails. There are jutting columns that extend as beams into the tunnel, narrowing it. There is a glowing intercom panel topped with an iridescent orange sign.

 

A call is incoming.

 

Amy hisses in pain as Simon sets her down. She knows he is trying his hardest to be gentle, but her nerves are frayed and there’s no one else to blame. It hurts. The shuttle is crashed and they’re all alone in the goddamn apocalypse.

 

Simon takes the call, and Amy listens intently.

 

“Simon… Simon? Are you there?”

 

“Catherine Chun!” Amy exclaims, without giving Simon a chance to speak. “Cath, is that you? With the Vivarium project?”

 

There is a long pause.

 

“Azzaro? Technician, right?”

 

“Amy, field.” She laughs breathlessly. “No offense big guy. It’s just nice to hear a familiar voice.”

 

“None taken,” Simon says pleasantly. His tone hardens as he turns his attention back to Catherine. “We were on our way, but the shuttle train fuckin’ crashed.” He sounds tired.

 

Chun takes too long to answer. “Amy, are you alright? The system says the section’s closed for a suspected hull breach.” She is careful to ignore Simon, Amy notes.

 

“I’m fine,” she concedes. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth. “You alright there, Moe?”

 

“Simon,” He corrects gently. “I don’t do nicknames. I’m fine. Just enjoying the goddamn apocalypse. Under water. Surrounded by murderous fuckin’ robots.”

 

“Wow, you’re really out of place, aren’t you?” There is a thinly veiled note of glee in Catherine’s voice. Amy has never really liked Catherine. “Look, don’t worry about that right now. I realize you’re confused, but you’re so close to Lambda. If you’d just keep going.”

 

“How close?” Amy cuts in. “Can we walk?”

 

Catherine pauses to consider. “Yeah, but the tunnel is locked off to protect the overall structure from collapsing. What you need to find is your section’s maintenance hatch; it will lead outside.”

 

“Maintenance hatch,” Simon echoes. “No problem.” He turns to Amy. “Do you think you can make it in your condition? I’m not sure if I can navigate while carrying you.”

 

Amy shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

 

“Wait-” Catherine snaps. “You’re hurt? How bad?”

 

“I’m on WAU-run life support bad.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“That’s what I said,” Simon mutters.

 

Catherine sounds distracted on the other end. “What’s that? What’s going on over there.” She pauses. There are more voices. “I gotta go. See you soon, Amy.”

 

The connection cuts out.

 

“You don’t like each other very much,” Amy observes. Simon only shrugs and moves to pick her up again. He lays her over his shoulder again, and she wraps her arms around his neck, feeling like a small child.

 

They move forward together down the tunnel, bathed in murky red light. The passage is congruous: nothing noteworthy, but at the end of the tunnel there is a flowering growth Amy has never seen before. She can feel Simon shaking beneath her.

 

“That’s a pod. We can charge you up.”

 

“At a WAU flower?” Amy questions, one eyebrow raised. “Are you sure hooking me up to the killer AI is a good idea?”

 

Simon nods against her arm. “You still have around eleven hours left of life support, but I’d rather top it off now than wait. I don’t know when we’ll see another one.” He pauses for a long moment, tipping his head at something Amy can’t see. “It’s just electricity conducted by structure gel.”

 

“I’m not so sure,” Amy warns. “But I trust you.”

 

She tenses as Simon takes the cord from her synthetic lungs and inserts it into the pod. There is a sickening squelch and a rattle of the prosthetics, but Amy is otherwise unaffected.

 

“See? You feel okay?”

 

Amy nods. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.”

 

Simon laughs and it echoes tinnily in the tunnel. “Whatever you say.”

 

He waits, counting on some internal clock Amy doesn’t have, before removing the cord and tucking back into her backpack. The metal groans ahead of them, and water bursts through a seam. Simon has jumped nearly a foot in the air, arms up defensively, but he returns to a more appropriate stance as he realizes it was nothing.

 

“Crybaby,” Amy taunts.

  
Simon whimpers in mock-hurt. “You wound me.” He adjusts Amy’s position slung over his back to be more comfortable. Her chin is now at the small of his back, and she mentions as much as he trudges a little ways back down the tunnel. He chastises her softly, dropping to his hands and knees to yank open the maintenance hatch before them.

  



	7. Not As We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Simon meets Amy and makes first contact with WAU; they make their way towards Lambda.  
> This time: Amy notices some things about Simon, they travel on foot to Lambda, and meet another of WAU's monstrous proxies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how long this took?? But at least it's long.

They wriggle awkwardly through a tight, wet crawlspace. There is a ladder only a few feet ahead, and Simon moves quickly to get them both there. Sharp rocks and twisted metal dig into his hands and knees as he scuttles uneasily through the cramped tunnel. Amy grunts and squeezes his shoulders as she’s pressed against the metal.

 

“Sorry,” Simon grunts, stretching his body to make more space. He can feel his unsteady midsection dip under Amy’s weight.

 

She grunts a wordless reply, loosening her grip around his neck. Simon wiggles his body along the rest of the passage, easing to his feet against a rusted ladder. He presses his chest against the rungs as Amy staggers upright.

 

“A ladder, huh?” Amy wheezes softly, bent over to catch her breath in the tight space. “I think I’ll be okay.”

 

The young man laughs tightly. “Ladies first,” he offers playfully, but his voice is strained. He shuffles to the side as Amy reaches up to grasp the metal. She puts her boot on one rung, then the next, shaky and careful as she pulls herself up. The going is painfully slow, and Simon trails just behind. She hesitates, nearly slips, and Simon hisses through his teeth in sympathy.

 

“Pass up your tool,” Amy orders. Red light seeps from the top of the tunnel. Simon fumbles for a moment, then unhooks his Omnitool from his belt.

 

“Here,” he complies extending his arm. His companion’s clumsy fingers close around the metal, and she pulls the device away. She eases out of the ladder-shaft, legs trembling from the effort. Simon follows, fingers scraping on the barnacles that cling to all the metal. Algae slicks the surface around it, and he nearly loses his balance.

 

Amy swipes the tool over the dock and the red light in the narrow airlock begins to flash. “Helmet secure?” she asks. Simon hums an affirmative, wringing his hands.

 

“You?”

 

“All set.”

 

They cut off conversation as the metal groans and pumps roar in the dark. Water fills up the chamber in mere moments, sloshing against the rusted metal walls. Amy shudders at the sudden cold seeping through her suit. It feels like a block of ice in her prosthetic lungs, but they quickly adjust to the change in temperature.

 

She can feel Simon’s expectant gaze on her back. “You okay?” He asks. His voice is muffled and tinny through the diving intercom, and it raises gooseflesh on Amy’s arms.

 

“Yes,” she assures, stepping back as a ladder drops down from the airlock. She grimaces at the sight. “Great, more climbing,” Amy growls. Simon gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze from behind.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says pleasantly, and shoulders gently ahead of her. “Water should make it a little easier.” He moves rapidly up the ladder and pulls himself out of the airlock. Amy can see his featureless black dive helmet peering over the edge, one gloved hand extended to help.

 

Something about his shaded visor, the inability to read his face, it sets Amy on edge. She shrugs the feeling off, reaching out and wrapping her fingers around his wrist. He hoists her firmly out of the airlock, and they get to moving. The water buoys their movements, but it weighs heavily on the lone divers, especially Amy.

 

She stops to briefly catch her breath, Simon edging up alongside her with hands on his hips. “You okay?” He asks again, tipping his head in her direction. Amy can hear his rubber gloves creak as he opens and closes his fists, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot to avoid sinking deeper into the unsteady silt.

 

“Yes,” Amy replies again, this time a little more curtly as the pressure weighs on her chest. It doesn’t seem to bother Simon at all, but then again his lungs are  _ inside _ his body. She peers out into the murk ahead, a nebulous horizon of dark grey-blue shadows that bleed into the seabed like oil. Even as she turns on her headlamp, Amy can hardly see an arm’s length ahead of her through the aimless particles of sea plants and tiny stones.

 

Ahead of her, Simon shuffles awkwardly ahead, skirting a clump of bleached corals and continuing on down the trodden-down path where no sea plants grow. They have started to encroach back on the unused strip of silt, but it is still noticeably more tame than the surrounding sea floor.

 

Amy squints into the dark-- Simon doesn’t have any light. Why is he flying blind? Is his lamp busted? She jogs heavily up behind him, feeling the disconnected strain in her own chest as her prosthetic lungs are bounced awkwardly up and down.

 

“Don’t forget your lamp,” Amy advises, a little breathlessly. The man in front of her seems to jump a little at the sound of her voice, shaking his arms out before laughing sheepishly into the comm.

 

“Right,” he sighs, and activates his own light in record time. “This way,” he says, and beckons her on. 

 

Together the pair lumbers from lightpost to lightpost, careful to keep within the circles of watery green illumination they cast into the dim water. Simon especially seems compelled to stay near, darting like a minnow from one pole to another as Amy meanders between them.

 

Simon stops abruptly after a rough ten minutes of travel, head swivelling from side to side as he scans the murk ahead. Hesitantly, he turns around to face Amy, trepidation clear in his voice. “Did you hear something, or am I going… crazy…” He trails off, seeming to lose focus.

 

“No,” she responds anyway. “Did you?”

 

It’s dark, her vision is blurred and she is half-blinded by the blaze of her partner’s headlamp, but Amy can’t help but feel that there is an odd red glare on Simon’s visor, almost as though from within. The man in question goes suddenly stiff, apparently looking out over Amy’s shoulder and into the murk.

 

“What do you see?” Amy asks, but receives no answer. She can hear Simon’s breath hitch over the comm, and he makes a breathy wheezing sound that rattles eerily around inside her helmet. “Simon?”

 

With a sharp barking noise, he dives towards her. The tumble head over head into a clump of thick seaweed resembling slimy lettuce. It occurs briefly to Amy that the strange sound might be a warning, but it is far too garbled by static and the staccato roaring of blood in her ears as Simon holds her down, strong fingers wrapped tight around her wrists. 

 

Amy writhes beneath him, feels the silt and rocks grind against her rubber maintenance suit. Her lungs feel like they’re being absolutely crushed, and she struggles to take a full breath. With what precious air she has left, Amy screeches into the comm link, “Get offa me!” And bucks her hips against her assailant. His empty black visor holds no expression, but the red glare is stronger than ever, a dark hot light seeping through the water and staining the green fronds of seaweed the color of long-dried blood.

 

A third voice cuts through the deafening static of their scuffle, a sharp, feral-sounding, “You!” 

 

Simon goes stiff atop Amy, for just a moment, and she renews her struggling. He finally hisses into their shared comm: “Shut up!” Reluctantly, she ceases resistance, going very still. She can hear the whirring of a motor just beyond the scraggly clumps of coral that bar her and Simon against the rocky border of the sea path. 

 

“I know you’re there!” Simon shrinks against her as the red light flares up over them, pressing their bodies flat against the seabed in an attempt to hide beneath the kelp. “Get back here! I know your name! 61633!” Amy can feel Simon’s chest heaving against her. She gulps in air of her own, pushing more gently against him in a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure on her lungs. “I know you have the gel! It’s inside you! You lied to me!”

 

Amy flinches as a choked sound comes in through the comm, but the whirring motor noise fades into the distance. Simon loosens his grip on her, if only a little as the red light fades, but keeps on staring into the murky water for what feels like an eternity before finally letting up and pulling Amy to her feet.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

 

“What the… fuck was that… all about?” Amy gasps in reply, putting distance between them until her back hits the stone again. “What the fuck?”

 

Simon shrinks under her reprimand. His visor flashes in the strong beam of her headlamp, and it makes the neurotic shaking of his head all too apparent. He presses his gloved hands against his helmet, curling his fingers against the outer dome as though he might be able to dig them in and rip the damned thing off.

 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “He’s back for me… why won’t she stop him… fuck!”

 

Once his panicked gasping registers in the comm, Amy realizes that he’s having some kind of attack. He whimpers tinnily into their radio and shirks from her touch when Amy tries to comfort him. She ultimately decides to just step back, wringing her hands against her chest as she tries to catch her own breath.

 

Slowly but surely, his breaths slow. “Sorry,” he says again, and looks over his shoulder once more. “I… the robot.”

 

Amy arches a brow. “What about it?”

 

“ _ Him _ ,” Simon corrects, almost automatically, and makes a sheepish noise through the comm. “He doesn’t like me very much.”

 

“Someone’s piloting it?”

 

He shakes his head. “No. The  _ robot _ doesn’t like me. He wants structure gel but I don’t have any to spare.”

 

“What?” Amy makes to pinch the bridge of her nose before remembering that she, too is wearing a dive helmet, and settles for putting her hands on her hips instead. “Why would that make you  _ tackle me _ and hide in the proverbial bushes? Just tell him you don’t have any!”

 

Simon sighs explosively, waving his hands in an attempt to veto her proposition. “No!” He insists. “I already told him I didn’t have any, and he said I better have some next time, or else!” He deflates somewhat, dragging one hand down his visor. “I don’t really know what ‘or else’  _ is _ , but I  _ definitely _ don’t want to stick around and find out.”

 

“The robot threatened you,” Amy surmises flatly, struggling to contain her disbelief.

 

“Yes!” He insists again, desperation creeping into his tone as he paces restlessly over the silt, throwing a glance over his shoulder every now and then to check for the gel-seeking unit’s return. “You know as well as I do that everything around here is totally fucked! What this WAU thing did to you-- the crazy-ass ostrich thing upstairs in the power station-- you know it!” Simon spins on his heel after the last round of pacing, turning back towards the path with a huff. “Let’s just go and find the others. I don’t want us to be out here alone anymore.”

 

Guilt coils in her gut at that. Simon was only trying to help, even if he’s done a shit job during his most recent attempts. But who else would carry Amy all the way from the other end of the station, set up communications with the remaining survivors, and put his body between her and a potential hostile? If she thinks about it like that, Amy actually feels quite guilty for snapping at him. It’s not like he’s some kind of deep-sea monster out to get her.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, knowing that the comm will amplify her voice. Simon hesitates ahead of her, and Amy can hear him sigh into his mouthpiece.

 

“S’fine,” he responds, a little dejectedly. “C’mon, Amy. Let’s just get out of here before he comes back and I gotta jump on you again.”

 

He waves her on, and Amy shuffles over the silt to move ahead of him, drifting between the watery pools of fluorescent light. Simon resumes his anxious zig-zagging pattern behind her, and Amy can feel his expressionless gaze burning holes into the back of her head. In the silence of the open ocean, his rattling breath sounds like thunder roaring into the comm.

 

The hulking silhouette of a submersible defines itself in the murky beam of her headlight, and Amy approaches it. She can feel Simon brush against her as they trudge over the corals and algae. He edges ahead of her, gloved hand outstretched to press against the rugged metal. Amy watches in silence as he traces the barnacles with his fingertips.

 

The round porthole is lit from above by the yellow light of ‘LAMBDA,’ and wreathed in drapes of leafy seaweed that look like flowering vines. He steps up over the metal grate, feeling around the rusted-shut port in the dark.

 

“Need a cortex chip to get in,” Amy says dully. “We only have the standard Helper-Jane AI package.” 

 

Simon growls low in his throat at that, and turns away from the hollow metal skeleton of the sub. In the wavering chemlight his visor flashes hot teal-green as he stalks past Amy and punches the gleaming orange button. The door makes a grinding sound as it slides open, and he ushers Amy into the pressure equalization chamber ahead of him.

 

Amy swipes their Omnitool over the console, and the mechanisms in the chamber whir and squeal as Simon moves up behind her. She can feel him shiver against her as the water drains from the airlock, and Amy gasps as the pressure on her lungs is relieved.

 

Together the pair emerges from the chamber, footsteps heavy and wet on the grated metal floor. Without warning, Simon stiffens, staring off into the ribbed metal corridor without moving a muscle. He tips his head back and forth and bobs his shoulders like a bird, muscles shaking as he struggles to remain frozen.

 

“Simon?” Amy ventures, and he hisses for her to be silent. “Have you made  _ more _ robot enemies?”

 

“Hush!” He snaps, dropping fluidly into a crouch and disabling his headlamp with a click. “Turn off your light; be quiet!”

 

Reluctantly, Amy obeys, lowering herself heavily to her hands and knees. She turns off her headlamp, plunging them both into perfect pitch darkness. Simon tosses his head, urging her to follow as he creeps close to the wall, rounding the bend with utmost caution.

 

Something groans in the darkness, and it sends a trickle of ice water rolling down her spine. Gooseflesh leaps up on her arms even beneath her diving suit, and Amy holds her breath. Simon whimpers, seizing up against the metal panels as the  _ thing _ in the darkness gurgles again.

 

He shakes violently, bunched legs trembling beneath him as he crawls onward. Amy sees something move in the shadows, and finds herself absolutely frozen as she turns her gaze on the monster.

 

It might have once been a man, with bloated purple skin and cancerous growths of structure gel crowning its head. Each of the tumors pulses with eerie blue bioluminescence, and the strange zombie of a creature creaks and whines as it drags its bare blue feet over the grated metal floor. 

 

Wrenching her gaze away, Amy whispers to Simon. “It’s right here, behind us.”

 

Simon growls again in response, a wet rattly sound like loose change in the drum of a washing machine. He bobs his head in what might be a nod, but Amy can’t see over his hunched shoulders in the dark. 

 

“There,” he finally breathes, barely audible even over the amplified comm. Blood is roaring in Amy’s ears, and her stomach is a mess of knotted snarls within her. Bile rises in her throat as she creeps along behind Simon, and the monster groans as it shambles along.

 

She cranes her neck to peek over Simon’s shoulder. There’s one of those magnetic doors that requires Omnitool authorization to open-- odds are, the monster doesn’t have one. Amy limps on three limbs as she fumbles for the tool on her belt, awkwardly adjusting the prosthetics slung over her back.

 

“On the count of three,” she orders, “run.”

 

Simon whimpers, but she watches his head bob up and down in a half-hearted nod. “Okay,” he whispers, voice trembling almost as much as his hands. He bunches his legs beneath him, much more lithely than Amy can hope to accomplish with her gangly underweight frame in oversized boots. Despite this, she follows suit, squeezing the Omnitool like a lifeline.

 

“Three,” she whispers, leaning forward. Simon tenses further, and Amy can hear his rubber gloves creak as he clenches his fists.

 

“Two,” Amy hisses, urging her companion on to edge against the corner of the wall.

 

“One!” And they push off, bolting around the bend of the ribbed corridor in a flurry of flailing limbs and pounding boots. Amy sticks the Omnitool out in front of her like a shield, praying for the damnable thing to pick up on the door signal and open it.  _ Now _ .

 

“Come on!” Simon shrieks, pounding his gloved fists against the paneled metal wall. Amy winces at the sound of flesh against metal, and in the dark she swears the grated steel gives beneath his blows. “Come  _ on! _ ”

 

With a click and shrill beeping sound, the door slides open. Simon dives into the dimly-lit storage room, skidding over the dirty floor on his knees. The sound of rubber squealing against steel assaults Amy’s ears like scratching velcro as she slams the door behind her.

 

The monster growls and groans on the other side of the door, throwing its tumorous body against the steel to no avail. Simon is completely still, staring transfixed at the thing, swaying in time to the pulsating light of its bioluminescence.

 

“Simon?” Amy ventures, hearing him sigh into the comm. “Y’alright there?” No answer but another breathless huff. “Simon.” Nothing. “ _ Moe _ .” No correction, he just mumbles unintelligibly, choking softly and whimpering. 

 

“Amy? Where are you?”

 

Her stomach drops. Has he hurt himself? Is that monster doing something to him? He just rolls his head on his neck and sways like a zombie, staring at it without seeing. The blank dome of his face swivels towards her voice, only to snap back to its previous position.

 

“You can’t see?” She asks hoarsely, laying one shaking hand on his shoulder. The rubber is surprisingly warm even through her thick gloves, and she almost recoils at the unexpected heat.

 

“You  _ can _ ?”

 

Amy is done with this. She kicks against the metal, hard, and the monster actually flinches. It slowly begins to lumber away, and she watches as Simon follows it with his sightless gaze. Mercifully, once it backs off some distance, the man seems to relax somewhat, shaking his head as though to rid himself of flies.

 

“Fuck,” he chokes. “That was fuckin’ horrible.” Even through his pitch-dark visor, Amy can feel his glare burning her face. “And  _ don’t _ call me Moe!”

 

“What the hell was that all about?” Amy demands, looping her arm under Simon’s and helping him unsteadily to his feet.

 

He only shrugs helplessly in response. “Dunno,” Simon coughs. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t  _ see _ , Amy.” He waves one gloved hand in front of his face, huffing. “I  _ couldn’t see _ .”

 

“I’m aware,” she says, taking the lull to peer about the storage room. Flat grey shelves are filled with plastic bins and spare parts that glint in the watery fluorescent light. “Because of that thing?” Amy asks at length, struggling to keep her voice low and gentle. Simon nods meekly. “Yeah. It’s gone, now.”

 

“I know.” Simon huffs, sniffing softly into the comm. “Let’s just find the others.” He shifts awkwardly in place, leaning heavily against the wall as he regains his bearings. 

 

Amy pats him firmly on the shoulder, and he coughs. She beats at his back a couple more times, only gently, and he chokes a little more before finally seeming to have regained control of his throat. “Thanks,” he mumbles wetly, and turns to face her.

 

His visor is just a white glare beneath her headlamp, but Amy can imagine the shaken sort of gratefulness that pulls at his features. She imagines that he is pale and thin and covered in scruff, just as filthy and weary as she. The thought is inexplicably comforting, so Amy just focuses on the image of Simon’s face in her mind.

 

“Y’ok?” He asks, tipping his head at her. His shoulders are relaxed, but still pulled slightly forward as an indication of his attention, and Amy finds that his body language is growing easier to read in the absence of a visible face. All she wonders now is whether or not he’s doing it on purpose.

 

“Yeah,” Amy replies. “Let’s go. Don’t forget your lamp.”

 

Simon huffs lowly, rapping his knuckles on the metal wall. “ _ One _ time, jeez.”

 

“One’s one too many,  _ Moe _ .”

 

He makes a sound like blowing a raspberry into the mouthpiece, and Amy can’t help but recoil from the sudden loud sound and accompanying feedback. He sets a strained laugh loose at her, gently prying the Omnitool from her unsteady fingers. Simon turns on his flashlight with a click and swipes it over the far door, turning his back on her.

 

“Come on,” he beckons over his shoulder. “I think the others would be this way.”

 

She nods meekly. “About right,” Amy concedes, and follows him into the dim corridors. This place is smoother and whiter than the shuttle station back at Upsilon. Long fluorescent lights trace the spine of the corridor in rows of two, and the hall is lined with dim consoles and their trailing multicolored wires. Rolling office chairs sit, moldy and stained and still, against the empty grey desks where coffee-yellowed papers lie more or less untouched among the dust and grease of work long since abandoned.

 

“This place is creepy,” Simon observes, and Amy nearly snorts. She says nothing, though, and limps along behind him. Her prosthetic lungs feel okay, and she doesn’t even hurt too badly-- though she has a sneaking suspicion that the WAU flower Simon had hooked her up to had also pumped her full of painkillers.

 

There is a wide grey panel of metal like a garage door that blocks off the main lab area, where Amy knows most of the computers should be. Blue light, starkly bright against the rest of the shadowy corridors, seeps out from beneath it, and Amy knows right away that this is their target.

 

“That thing,” she says, pointing to their left as Simon threatens to veer off into a branching corridor. “See the light?”

 

He grunts an affirmative, shuffling tiredly up to the sliding magnetic door. He hesitates a long moment before fisting his hand and rapping his knuckles against the metal. He starts in an aimless, irregular rhythm, but then seems to realize that such a thing is probably commonplace from the thrashing monsters and settling hull.

 

So he adjusts his strategy, much to Amy’s pleasant surprise, and begins to tap out a beat. It’s rough and imprecise, but definitely recognizable-- an old,  _ old _ song that she remembers her parents listening to all the time.

 

“An’ I would walk five-hundred miles!” He shouts against the door, patting a rhythm on on the steel. “And I would walk five-hundred more!”

 

“Simon,” Amy deadpans. “I don’t think it’s working.”

 

He throws a glare over his shoulder, still drumming; he breaks into a little solo of invisible melody as he retorts, “Let me finish-- Just t’be that man who walked a thousand miles t’fall down!” He pauses only a moment to take a breath before concluding: “At your door!”

 

“Simon!”

 

Amy hears him take a breath, tapping away, and then immediately release it and stop his playing.  “Fine,” he mumbles, and she can hear the childish pout in his voice.

 

“Don’t be like that, Moe,” she teases. He groans at her, sliding down like a ragdoll against the wall until he’s splayed face-down on the grimy floor. “I just don’t want you to upset the- the thing.”

 

“Oh.” He says, sounding very small. “Didn’t think of that.”

 

Amy waves him off. “I don’t think it can actually get over here, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. You’ve got great knowledge of the classics, though.”

 

Simon laughs, beginning to right himself. “Listen to ‘em all the time,” he agrees, then falters. “I  _ used  _ to, I mean.”

 

She says nothing, but pats him firmly on the shoulder in a vain attempt to soothe the raw misery in his voice. He sighs, leaning with his back against the door. Simon doesn’t speak either, but leans into her touch like a cat. His gloved hand finds its way to hers, and he lattices their fingers together.

 

Amy feels him squeeze, and squeezes back against his warm touch, hard enough to make the rubber creak and squeal between their intertwined fingers. “S’gonna be fine, big guy.”

 

“I hope so,” he mumbles, and sound drifts from the other side of the door.


	8. Misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: strong language, graphic violence/gore, body horror, graphic description of a corpse(?), other gross/scary images

Of all things, the tuneless shout-singing of an unfamiliar voice is not what Catherine typically plans on waking up to. A hull breach or a proxy attack, perhaps, or a report on how few rations there are left and that someone must to dare a trip for more. Certainly, those are certainly less innocent or pleasant, but at least they make  _ sense _ in the grand scheme.

 

The lilting, upbeat melody of a century-old love song echoes tinnily from the outside, drifting in muffled tones through the thick steel door alongside the rhythmic thump of rubber on metal. Under any other circumstances, Catherine would be delighted to hear some real music after so long without, but this time just sets dread coiling in her gut at the thought of the inevitable confrontation soon to come.

 

Groaning, she rolls awkwardly out from under the tarp she’s sleeping beneath. This week is Baxter’s turn with the remaining intact linens: consequently, Catherine won’t get them until after Dorian, who will get them after Vanessa. On particularly cold nights they forego the turn system altogether to pile up in the warmest quarters with a whole heap of rough fabric and plastic to contain their collective body heat. It never gets very warm.

 

That being the case, however, without the soft blanket of pleasant, half-awake warmth to keep her snuggled up, Catherine lacks notable motivation to actually  _ stay _ with her increasingly boney hip pressed against the dirty steel floor and one thin white arm folded stiffly beneath her body.

 

It seems, she notices, as she sits up and blinks blearily up at him, that Adam’s been sent to fetch her already, because he stands in the doorway with a scowl. His greasy black hair falls in sweat-stiff clumps in front of his eyes, and for all the world he looks like he wants to punch something.

 

“Amy’s here-” he begins to growl, but Catherine cuts him off.

 

“And in record time, too,” she snips. Yawning groggily, she peels herself off the floor with an exaggerated stretch. 

 

Adam growls through his teeth, curling his lip like he’s looking at something particularly gruesome. “I haven’t seen myself yet, but I figured you’d like t’hear that she brought the proxy with ’er.” 

 

_ That _ little detail, she remembers with an exasperated huff. “Oh,” Catherine says dully, mirroring Adam’s crossed arms. “Do we have a plan to deal with that?”

 

He only shrugs in response. “Maybe. It hasn’t offed Amy yet, so Vanessa’s thinkin’ we can reason with it.” Adam grimaces in something between condescension and sympathy, shaking his head. “She’s too naive for her own good. I say we grab Azzaro and book it before that thing can get in with us.”

 

“What about Baxter? Is he okay with all this?”

 

“Not really,” Golaski admits gruffly. “He’s scared shitless of this thing, and for good reason. Bit with Fish fucked’im up real good. Far as I understand he doesn’t wanna let ‘em in at all-- afraid that Amy isn’t real.”

 

Catherine nods, wincing in sympathy for her coworker. “I’ll say. And Cronstedt?”

 

“ _ He _ doesn’t really have an opinion at all,” Adam spits bitterly, “but he’ll tell you he’s got it all figured out, like we’re fuckin’ toddlers. Wasn’t born yesterday, but he sure wants to protect me and you like we were.”

 

She sighs, adjusting the stale old uniform she’s slept in. A patch of black oil-staining on the seam of her breast pocket becomes strikingly interesting as she determinedly avoids eye contact. “I know you’re frustrated, Adam, but don’t fault him for wanting us safe. He’s trying his best.”

 

“Sure,” Adam sighs, wilting. “C’mon now, rest of us’re waiting for you, and Amy’s already outside the door with her ‘friend.’”

 

Catherine shifts uneasily in place. “I don’t like this anymore than you do,” she admits, scuffing a shoe on the floor, “but maybe Vanessa’s right about talking to it.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to fend off her inevitably oncoming headache. “I don’t want to get my hopes up too high, but maybe it can help us.”

 

The following silence hangs heavy in the air, draped between the two of them like the limp canvas of a sea-soaked sail: going nowhere. Golaski lowers his head, scrutinizing Catherine with an unreadable gaze. He takes a deep breath, uncrossing his arms to run his hands through his sweaty hair. The tension in the air can be cut with a knife, so tangible, so thick and deeply oppressing. Catherine can’t help but shrink into herself as Adam growls, 

 

“Like the last time went so well,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “For all our sakes I hope you’re wrong.”

 

Catherine can’t help but gawk at that, and opens her mouth to question him, but stops. He  _ does _ have a point: do they really want to become dependent on proxies of the WAU, the thing that got them into this wretched mess in the first place, second only to the comet? Leaning too heavily on fabrication was their downfall the first time, so who’s to say it won’t be now?

 

So she follows him wearily out to the main room, still shaking the stiffness of sleep from her limbs. Vanessa is at the control console, anxiously awaiting the signal to open the door, while Dorian shifts uneasily from foot to foot, glaring at the steel as though he might see through it. Baxter is nowhere to be found.

 

Reluctantly, Cronstedt signs for the door to be opened as Adam and Catherine settle into position. She doesn’t miss the way Adam closes his fingers around a sharp piece of metal to use as a weapon should things go awry.

 

The unmaintained steel creaks and groans thunderously as the door grinds unsteadily open. 

 

Against the oily shadows of the unoccupied hall ahead, two figures emerge abreast, hand in hand. They are washed in shades of ghostly blue by the watery light from within the survivors’ shelter. Both are wearing dive suits, grey-blue rubber still slick with seawater. The slimmer of the pair, with a strange bundle strapped to her back, removes her helmet to reveal Amy Azzaro.

 

Catherine can't help but gasp, a stinging pang of sympathy pulling at her throat. Amy’s smooth skin is ashen and pale with illness, and her once-full cheeks are gaunt and shadowed. Despite it all, though, her brown eyes shine in her good nature, optimistic and eager and  _ alive _ .

 

Azzaro half-limps over the threshold to throw her skinny arms around Dorian, leaning up on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. She does the same for Adam, who smiles weakly over her shoulder after begrudgingly accepting a hug. She turns too to Catherine, tenderly taking the smaller woman's bare hands into her own.

 

“I'm so glad to see you all,” she greets breathlessly, grinning from ear to ear as a pleasant murmur of reciprocity fills the air. Vanessa offers a jaunty little wave, and Amy just beams in response.

 

For her part, Catherine keeps watching the proxy as it stands at the periphery with hands clutched to its chest in an attempt to take up as little space as possible. It shifts awkwardly from foot to booted foot, innocuously evoking the perfect image of a wallflower dragged into unfamiliar company. Catherine wonders who its body used to be, painted by veins of structure gel over rubber suit like ruined lace lingerie. Something aches in her chest at the thought.

 

“C’mon Moe, don't be shy,” says Amy, waving the proxy over.

 

It laughs sheepishly, and even through the tinny filter of the helmet to the air it sounds uncannily  _ right _ , boyish and breathy with relief. If she didn't know better, Catherine would think it’s totally real.

 

The proxy jumps a little as Vanessa shuts the door again, letting it drop quickly with a loud clang of metal on metal, and then turns to Catherine. It releases the audio imitation of a sigh, twiddling its thumbs against its navel as it dips its head to her. “Thank you,” the proxy says pleasantly, if a little shy in delivery. “I was kind of a dick to you and you didn’t deserve it- I’m just a mess right now and-” It shakes itself out, holding out a hand, “We’re cool, right?”

 

“Sure,” Catherine allows, albeit hesitantly. She takes the proxy’s gloved hand, shaking it loosely before drawing away. Its suit is too ruined for her to see the employee ID that must be stamped onto the shoulder, but she thinks she sees a pattern in those smudged and faded numbers, something familiar. Dread chews at the lining of her stomach like a worm.

 

Amy tugs at the proxy’s arm, animatedly introducing it to Cronstedt and Vanessa, and effectively removing Catherine’s ability to further inspect it. It nods politely, standing military-straight before them and professing, “It’s an honor to meet you!”

 

To which Amy responds, “Loosen up! You can finally take off that stuffy old dive suit and relax for a little while.”

 

“Relax, eh?” The proxy seems to focus on Amy from behind the blank black dome of its helmet, hands moving to its hips as it examines the shelter. “As much of a relief as it is to be here,” it says cheekily, “I’m not sure I can ever relax again after this shit-show.”

 

Amy hobbles over to slap it hard on the back, and they both laugh. “Don’t worry, big guy, door’s closed. I wanna see your face.”

 

The proxy cocks its head, anxiety rolling off of it in waves. It shuffles again in place, fists clenching and unclenching as it seems to consider its options. Anticipation builds in Catherine’s chest, dread roiling in her gut as it reaches up and fumbles with the seal on its helmet that connects to the heavy rubber collar of the dive suit. Its gloved fingers move clumsily, blatantly unpracticed at handling Pathos-II’s heavily standardized equipment, and it laughs a little, nervous and off-puttingly shrill.

 

“Need help?” Vanessa offers, holding back a pinched expression that is either a smile or a grimace, or both.

 

It nods, rubbing the back of its helmet sheepishly. “Yeah,” the proxy admits, “I haven’t taken it off since… gosh, I dunno.” It wilts pitifully, head lowered, trembling hands held palm-up against its chest. “I think I was losing my mind before I found Amy and you guys,” it admits. “Alone in the dark, it felt like… such a long time.” Then, without warning, it seems to remember something, head shooting up and shoulders squaring, tense. “Nevermind. This was a bad idea- I’ll just-”

 

The proxy’s frantic breaths rattle through its helmet, and even Amy who is unsure of its true nature backs away as it crosses its arms, hugging itself and retreating with unsteady backwards steps. Vanessa, inescapably compassionate, rushes forward, putting her hands on the proxy’s rubber-clad shoulders. “Easy,” she soothes, “it’s all okay.”

 

She throws a look to Catherine, brows furrowed high over liquid brown eyes filled with pity. “We can’t do this to him,” she mouths, desperate, but Adam shakes his head.

 

“If you don’t do it, I will,” he all but snarls.

 

“I can’t,” she chokes in reply, looking stricken and small.

 

Golaski pushes her away from the proxy with a gruff, “go back to the console,” and yanks off the helmet with a few deft tugs of the fastening mechanism. He drops the black dome top-down onto the floor, and the sound of cracking glass sounds like a thunderclap in the relative silence.

 

Catherine hates it, but she can’t tear her eyes away even as Adam recoils. The neck and lower head of a human being peek up from the thick rubber collar: a robust jaw and tapering chin, corpse-blue lips, a long, sloping nose- and then it all falls apart over a ragged black seam.

 

A gaping cranial cavity houses the raw bone that comes up from the nose and jaw, smooth organic shapes interrupted by the boxy cut of artificial optic processors welded to a standing pole shoved down through the bottom of the skull. The cameras flick anxiously back and forth, pinprick red lights like feral eyes in the dark. She can see the outline of a cortex chip sticking out from behind the cameras, and a small speaker-mic set balanced precariously on the bottom left side of the pole before it disappears into the neck.

 

Nobody moves, all staring, transfixed in horrified silence. Catherine swallows the urge to retch at the sight of pulsating black meninges crawling over bare grey matter, struggling to look away. She almost succeeds. 

 

Almost, but something catches her eye. 

 

There, on the right cheek, Catherine thinks she sees something damning. Right there, above a little brown mole that rides an old laughter line, she can see it. Resisting the urge to scream, she squints and feels horror roar up in her gut. There are freckles on those gaunt grey cheeks, and Catherine can see a line resembling the tail end of Sagittarius, three little blemishes that form an open vertex and then two more above that that are cut off by the ugly brown-black seam of the proxy’s cloven skull.  

 

She can  _ see  _ it, and it kills her.

 

“Red?” She chokes, and Adam leaps to his feet. He shoves the proxy back as Catherine screams through her sobs. She writhes and screams against Golaski’s wiry arms, pushing and thrashing in a vain attempt to get at the proxy that is not and never will be Reed. “Imogen!” Catherine wails, tears pouring down her cheeks to fall with faint plops on the hollow metal floor.

 

They fill her vision with watercolor shapes, the dark silhouette of the proxy against the muted grey panels, the impression of oily black shadows beyond the safety of the viewing pane and the reinforced door. Catherine’s eyes sting and burn as she screams wordlessly, staring at those lifeless blue lips that once took the force of her most passionate kisses.

 

Horrified recognition overtakes the remaining survivors. Amy whimpers, “Mo Reed?  _ Imogen Reed _ ?” Dorian is fuming, sweat beading on his balding forehead and dripping down over his eyes as he takes over restraining Catherine. 

 

With his hands now free, Adam lunges forward, thrusting out a fist to sock the proxy solidly in the gut. It gasps at the force of the blow, a splattering of black gel bursting from its mouth and sloshing visibly in the gaping curve of its open skull.

 

“Open the door!” He roars, kicking the proxy again while it’s down. Vanessa, face crunched into an expression of soundless grief, does as she’s told. The magnetic door slides open again with a screech of metal on metal as it strikes the top of its casing.

 

The proxy makes an unintelligible gurgling sound, now on its hands and knees, and tries to rush Golaski. Its gloved hands are outstretched, grabbing, dead black tongue lolling wildly from what’s left of Imogen’s mouth, blazing red camera-eyes twitching and darting like mayflies.

 

Adam is caught off guard, stumbling down onto his rear. He scooches back on the paneled floor, shoes squealing against the raw metal as he makes a desperate retreat. He lashes out with a foot, catching the proxy in the throat. “Close it! Close it!”

 

And Vanessa does.

 

As the reanimated corpse of Imogen Reed reels back, choking, the door comes down. The proxy screams words that are garbled with liquid and pain, thrashing and kicking as it struggles to crawl back inside the shelter. It reaches out, fingers curled like claws on open air, then closing on Adam’s ankle with force enough to make him yelp. 

 

And then, in an instant, it’s over. With a sickening crunch of crushed bone, the proxy is thrown to the outside. They can hear its modulated, inhuman screeches even through the thick steel barrier. Its arm, disconnected tendons writhing like worms in a way that tendons never should, twitches on the floor, gushing black blood as fingers claw in vain at naked flesh.

 

Adam pries it off of his leg, panting, and kicks the disembodied arm away. It rolls to a stop against the door, then goes still.

 

That’s when Catherine starts screaming anew.

 

* * *

 

Everything is pain for Simon. He can hear himself screaming, feel his body moving, but it all echoes like a distant dream beyond the haze of agony that explodes from the stump of his arm with every throbbing heartbeat. His world is a blanket of ache and stabbing hurt that cuts to the core, drowning out all else. He doesn’t know why he tried to go back, or what they all saw that made them so afraid, but none of it matters to him.

 

In that moment, Simon  _ is _ pain. Pain is his breath, shooting through his chest, is his limbs and the pervasive ache that fills them. It is his heart that bursts with agony for every beat, and his voice that rips at his throat where the man’s ragged boot met his neck.

 

“Oh, oh, oh,” he chokes wetly, “bad-bad this is bad-no-no-no- nnghrr-” and then something that doesn’t come from his artificial voice box, something raw and feral that rolls thickly from his  _ real _ throat like thunder. “It hurts so bad- God-God-God!”

 

His vision is a tunnel of black and red and the blurred shapes of boxes and beams and other metal things. The soft drip of leaking gel sounds like bullets through his head, each tiny noise an explosion that crushes bone and deafens Simon to all but the inescapable pain.

 

He can’t stop screaming.

 

Simon stumbles, shambling against the wall, clutching the still-gushing stump of his right arm close to his body even as his oily blood runs between his fingers and stains a black trail in the shape of his boots. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he cannot bring himself to stop. To stop is to die, and he can’t.

 

He just can’t die, and he doesn’t even know if that’s literal.

 

Blood is roaring in his ears, and his chest feels like it’s full of broken glass, rattling and rising and settling like silt with each labored breath that he cannot control. Simon manages to collapse in a halfway-upright position against a featureless panel of the wall, in a nondescript room full of rolling shelves and crates. His blood keeps on oozing from the raw stump of his right arm, gushing in bursts like a knotted hose. Simon tries to tense his bicep and ends up sending an arc of black sludge soaring from one rotten tube, splattering in long-shadowed shapes against the wall.

 

For what feels like an absurdly long time, Simon just sits there, legs splayed awkwardly beneath him in the storage closet, gaping at the writhing tissues and oily blood that takes the place his arm used to be. He can feel it, a phantom fist clenched in pain that throbs up from the splintered bone and broken vessels, but all he sees is gore.

 

And the bleeding doesn’t stop. It keeps on pouring, pouring, pouring out. Something wet and tasting of copper fills Simon’s mouth, and slowly his vision turns grainy, and blurred, and black.

 

Nothing.

 

When he opens his eyes again, all Simon can see is grey and blurred and shaky. He can feel his legs bumping over metal floors, rubber boots squealing. There are warm hands under his arms, gripping him firm and strong. He doesn’t know who is holding him. When he tries to say thank you, he only chokes.

 

He wakes again, still dragging. He sees an ugly, pustule-covered proxy in his periphery, covered in artificial growths of black crust and metal, so many long thin tendrils spilling from its gaping mouth like a flesh-colored cthulhu. 

 

It just stares at him, and Simon stares back.

 

Then he sleeps.


	9. Somnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BIG CW: graphic sex scene right at the beginning!!! CTRL+F "Vision returns" to skip it.  
> (this is the first sex scene i've ever written, so additional warning that it's pretty bad)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not pleased with this chapter tbh but i have to get it written to get places in this fic! mostly lots of plot framing and establishing stuff. it's one of those.

_ Dream,  _ she says, and it is an order he cannot refuse.

 

He can see the haloed outline of the sofa in his apartment, feel the roughness of Jesse’s hand in his and the softly chapped touch of Ashley’s lips. The frames of her glasses are cool and smooth against his cheek, echoing her warm textured skin. Jesse’s stubbly chin is pressed into his neck as all three hold each other, splayed across the sagging cushions.

 

“I dream about you,” Ashley huffs against his face, eyes hooded and gleaming with euphoria as she slides her body over Simon’s, kissing his lips so tenderly he thinks he might just melt. He touches her in return, tracing the warm contours of her back with his fingers, feeling the soft flesh of her belly and her breasts as his hands reverently explore her chest.

 

Jesse kisses him, upside down, leaning over to nibble at his earlobe. Simon cranes his neck, humming pitifully into the other man’s mouth as they deepen the kiss with clumsy teeth and tongue. He pulls away from Simon to lock lips with Ashley, throwing huffs of hot air down onto the other man’s face.

 

Ashley’s lips, still wet with Jesse’s tongue, travel downwards and downwards; she nips and sucks on Simon’s neck hard enough to mark, and he leans eagerly into the contact. She glistens, smells like sweat and lavender, and he can feel her dampness on his skin as she grinds lightly against him, teasing his throbbing cock with fairy touches. She kisses him again and again, tonguing his nipples, dragging her teeth down against his navel.

 

Jesse plays with Simon’s hair, carding his fingers through the short brown locks to scratch his scalp, leaning over to laugh at Ashley.

 

Simon whimpers as she plants delicate kisses along his shaft, arching his back as he resists the urge to twitch and buck his hips for more. Ashley presses her lips ever so tenderly on his drooling slit and he almost screams. She sighs, blinking lovingly up at him over the length of his naked body, and takes him wholly into her mouth.

 

He bites back a desperate yelp, curling his fingers into the fabric of the sofa cushions and tossing his hips, desperate for more. Jesse grunts behind him, “Oh yeah,” and Ashley moves with agonizing slowness, swiping her tongue along his underside, each lap drawing even more needy sounds from Simon. 

 

The knot of heat at the root of his dick is almost unbearable, and Simon gasps as Ashley withdraws, whining and dripping with need.

 

“Not yet,” Jesse teases as the woman removes her naked body from Simon’s, taking his turn to throw one leg over the smaller man, pinning him between his knees. Simon’s eyes go wide as Jesse shimmies up along his body, pushing the bulge in his underwear closer and closer to his face. “You’ve gotta earn it.”

 

Simon nods fervently, openly mewling for relief of the scalding heat that roils in his belly, burning his face and his pride. He takes Jesse eagerly, without teasing or taking his time, into his mouth until he thinks he might choke, working his partner’s dick with his teeth. Sloppy, desperate, blissful. Jesse fills his mouth and he can hear Ashley grunt, see her arm move and hips thrust as she watches Simon suck their boyfriend off. 

 

He closes his eyes and it’s all gone.

 

They have work tomorrow at the Grimoire, but Simon thinks he might just give them all the day off. Tonight has been special, but he is so tired. He can hardly remember what they did together; only that it was warm and close and lit by dusky light, a chain of loving bodies that flash as dreamlike images behind his eyes.

 

And then he’s back in the action, screaming silently as Jesse pushes into his throat, slicking his tongue with precum as he does. He can hear Ashley getting into it somewhere behind and to his left, urging them to “keep going, keep going!” Between gasps she orders Simon to “finish him.” He shudders and puts his slavering mouth back to work until the job is done. He uses his teeth for purchase, battering the head of Jesse’s dick with a desperate tongue as his belly burns with lust. He’s already hard as a rock and he needs relief  _ now _ . The other man grips Simon’s face tight between his knees, fingers tangled into his hair— he yanks hard when Simon finally coaxes the finisher out of him: he arches his back, gasping, sweat beading and sliding down his bare skin. Jesse’s orgasm floods Simon’s mouth with salt and cream that thicken his tongue even as Jesse pulls messily out.

 

“Swallow,” Ashley orders, voice thick with desire, and he hears her finish as he obeys, tipping his head back.

 

The three of them bunch together on the sofa then, a tangle of sweaty bodies and loving nibbles. Simon presses his lips to Ashley’s, and her tongue takes remnants of Jesse from behind his lips.

Despite the heat pooling in his belly, burning at his ears and hungry lips, he feels ill. Ice seeps into his limbs, clashing against the warmth of the dream with a million pins and needles biting at his flesh, condensed into an almost-overwhelming spike of cold at his right arm, pulsing from the joint and eating up his paralyzed hand.

 

But still, she straddles him and starts moving into his hips while Jesse recovers from his climax, still panting nearby. Ashley positions herself just right to take him into her and she’s  _ soaking _ , hot and deep wrapped around his dick like a bruising kiss. Simon almost cries, shoving himself against her weight with greater and greater force so that nothing she can do can make the act anything other than desperate. He loves her but there is no romance, just carnal, dominating need swelling in his cock as she fucks him, totally at her mercy.

 

Sweat rolls down her breasts and drips onto his skin, and all of her is moving, lips parted as she pants and works at him with fervor. Simon closes one hand around the soft flesh of her nipple, squeezing it and shaking as Ashley moans in response. Jesse kneels and bites Simon’s ear hard enough for him to yelp, and that burst of stimulation is all it takes for Simon to finally finish.

 

Ashley sighs, muscles tensing in the rush as he comes into her, and then she relaxes.

 

Simon gasps against the worn corduroy of the sofa, digging his nails into Ashley’s bare back as the rush of blinding pleasure leaps hot against the pain, but even as the feeling fades he finds that he can’t let go. She whimpers, asks him to stop, says that he’s hurting her, but he just can’t let go. Simon struggles to wrench away even as Jesse’s strong, sweaty hand wraps around his thin wrist, gentle and concerned.

 

He asks if Simon’s okay, but he can’t answer. He’s blinded by the pain in his arm, like a rod of ice has been shoved between the bones. Simon tries to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle as the acrid taste of jet fuel fills his mouth, welling between his tender teeth and making him swoon from the fumes. He recoils as though he’s been struck, wresting himself away, feeling Ashley’s warm skin give beneath his fingernails, tearing like wax paper.

 

Black tar oozes from the cuts.

 

Even as he stares in horror at the bleeding, Simon feels a rush of hot lust fill his belly, swallowing the relief of his orgasm and replacing it with burning, gnawing hunger. He blinks and suddenly he is not beneath Ashley but on top of another woman, one with dark hair and almond eyes that glitter black like onyx. Her hands are calloused but gentle as they explore his bare chest, touching him in ways that are entirely foreign and make him shudder with pleasure. She squeezes his nipple and he suppresses a gasp.

 

“Imogen,” says the woman, and he realizes that it’s Catherine.

 

He cannot speak to reply, body moving of its own accord to grind against her with a strange dampness in the empty space between his legs, gravity yanking his upper body down to kiss her. For an instant the soft lips on his are bliss, a warm tongue stretching to explore beyond his teeth, but then the oily taste of dense chemicals burns up in his throat, and black sludge falls from his mouth.

 

Catherine dissolves beneath him, choking. Simon screams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Vision returns to him in murky smears of grey and blue. Fluorescent lights above him swim in and out of focus as his head lolls, boneless, against the floor. Simon can feel with his left hand the ridges of panelled metal beneath his body, cold and hard through the synthetic rubber of his gloves. He feels light-headed, scalp prickling painfully from his temples down to the top line of his ears.

 

His chest rattles as a sob wracks his body, and Simon can hear the pneumatics beneath his sternum hissing as he whimpers. “Ashley,” he chokes, independent of his mechanized breathing, “Jesse?”

 

Simon has been dreaming. He knows this. The sweaty flavor of sex and kisses has been replaced by an oily taste of black blood in his mouth. It reminds him that he is not at home in Toronto just as much as the electric pain that writhes in his right arm. The agony coils in his muscles like a barbed-wire python, tightening and squeezing hard around his bicep to dig the prongs in when he moves.

 

Seeping cold from the metal beneath him creeps through the thick rubber and insulation of his dive suit, drawing long involuntary shivers down his spine. Simon whimpers in the dark as he tries to sit up, propping himself up with his good arm. The phantom prickling from the elbow down tells him all he needs to know, and he chokes back yet another sob. He feels dirty, knowing he’s defiled this poor borrowed body he inhabits.

 

“Fuck!” Simon wails. His vision fails him, flickering into blocky shapes like corrupted data. Something nearby screeches metal on metal, and he can see the flickering shapes of sparks close to his thigh in the shadows.

 

Something else, monstrous and strange, moves in the darkness, patches of bioluminescence blurring as it sways. Simon can feel his chest tighten like it did with the strange blue beast with its bulbous head and sight-stealing light. He screams, wriggling against the grated metal floor as the figure approaches. Backed into a corner, hurt and afraid, Simon kicks blindly. A box of something goes flying.

 

“Calm yourself,” someone says, and Simon can tell the voice is in his head just like Her, because he can feel it thrumming strangely behind his eyes. “You’re safe, boy.”

 

Simon obeys as best he can, blinking into the shadows. He can see the tar-dark silhouette of  _ something _ standing before him. A long, thin arm reaches to press against the wall and with a metallic click there is light—casting into excruciating detail the one who flipped the switch. It is thin and top-heavy, with a turgid head made leathery by scabbing and gel. Its spindly arms reach towards Simon, and without thinking he takes one in return with his good hand. Together they heave, and Simon stumbles to his feet.

 

He takes the opportunity to examine his surroundings, remembering to turn on his flashlight once he directs it away from the strange creature. The faint white fluorescent lights waver, flickering unreliably overhead. Simon’s chest is roaring with fear and confusion, but a disconcerting blanket of shock numbs it all into resignation. It makes him angry, in a very quiet way, because he knows in the back of his mind that the Warden is doing something to repress his feelings—and despite the undeniable benefit of doing so, Simon can’t help but resent the lack of agency She has given him. 

 

Helpless to do otherwise, he diverts that energy into cataloguing the environment, and all of the things around him.

 

They are in a storage room that Simon does not recognize, albeit not unlike the one he hid in with Amy. Shelves on trolleys are pushed into rows against either side wall, stacked with little metal boxes and scraps of wire. A cardboard crate, soggy with black structure gel, holds plastic containers of instant coffee at the back of the room, and Simon watches it drip in silence.

 

“Thank you,” he finally says, and brings himself to look at the creature’s face. It is gaunt and sunken deep, and thick plated cables run from its upper temples down to the clavicle and neck, winding visibly beneath the skin all the way to its crooked toes. It is wearing an oily tank top with a Pathos-II logo on the breast, and ratty grey sweatpants that sag like a tent on its thin body. Simon can see the pumping and glow of each augment through the thin fabric.

 

Patches of that eerie blue bioluminescence pulse on its scabby body in time with the low hum of its—his voice in Simon’s head. “Of course,” he says, watching Simon very carefully with his empty black eyeholes, studying him.

 

“Um—Can you tell me who you are? And—um, what’s going on?”

 

The creature nods slowly, “I’m Ross—Johan Ross. I used to work here at this facility, as you can imagine.” The strange dark tentacles that come out of his mouth writhe in agitation. “I’m also sure you’ve figured at least some of this out by now,” he begins sourly, “but we down here are all that’s left.” At Simon’s questioning look, he elaborates. “Telos, a comet, hit the planet about a year ago. As far as I know, nothing on the surface survived the impact.”

 

“We’re all that’s left,” Simon can’t help but mumble, numbly. It’s such a strange sensation. All his life the world had felt small— _ Toronto _ was his world, the confines of his comic-store management and modest apartment even more so—but there was still some nebulous sense of global community that lingered there. There were tourists, and the Internet, and international news broadcasts.

 

The idea that they’re alone makes the world feel impossibly huge.

 

“Yes,” replies the creature, almost tenderly. “I know this must be very hard for you.”

 

Simon nods mutely. “I saw the date in the comm center,” he manages. His missing arm prickles uncomfortably, a phantom limb he cannot relieve of discomfort.

 

Ross reaches out with his spindly hands to take Simon’s in his own, and, to his surprise, cups even the missing one between his fingers. Simon looks down, eyes wide and confused. Johan’s skinny fingers are wrapped around his glove on one side, and on the other…

 

A set of strange, long digits are curled beneath Ross’ hand, three serrated pieces of metal curved into six-inch claws. Simon doesn’t know where the materials came from, but he thinks at least one of them is the haphazardly welded tip of a nail.

 

“Oh,” Simon says, rather dumbly. “Is that—?”

 

Humming an affirmative, Ross offers a wobbly nod—though it’s more like a stiff, shoulders-up wiggle for his mutated body. “I’m sorry about your arm. If I’d had the original we might have reattached it, but it got locked in with the remaining crew at Lambda.”

 

Simon stares down at the foreign metal thing stuck into his arm-stump. Clear plastic tubing winds between two long pieces of metal, slightly bent and battered but strong. They connect separately at his wrist and together at his elbow, which gives way to a thicker rod teeming with little tendrils not unlike the ones spilling from Johan Ross’ mouth. Faintly pulsating strips of black fungus-flesh connect all of the components, thin and rough-textured like rolls of wire.

 

“Go on, try and move it,” encourages Ross, a little gruffly, but not unkindly.

 

He obeys, but doesn’t dare look up at his rescuer. It takes a moment of prodding before he finally seizes control over the artificial limb, but it seems like smooth sailing after that. The gelly muscle stretched between the rods of metal trembles briefly, and then contracts, pulling Simon’s limp arm into a rough ninety-degree angle with a scrape of metal on metal.

 

“You built this?” He asks, in awe despite himself. Black liquid pumps through the tubes with a faint  _ glubbing _ sound, filling up the the gel-flesh as it contracts and seeping back out when it relaxes with a hydraulic hiss.

 

Ross nods. “Yes,” he says. “It ought to get the job done, but I apologize that it’s rather crude. That is, I’m an AI psychologist, not an engineer.”

 

“You had help from the Warden, then?”

 

He doesn’t have much left in the way of eyelids, but the chapped skin around his empty eyeholes twitches in a vestigial blink of surprise. Tipping his head, he inquires, “You’ve already met?”

 

“Yeah,” replies Simon. “When Amy was hurt, She helped me keep her alive until we reached Lambda—but… I don’t know how much longer the life support will last. The Warden said she’d need to charge it every… twelve hours, I think. How long have I been out?”

 

Ross shrugs stiffly. “I’d wager in the neighborhood of four hours. Took perhaps forty minutes to drag you someplace safe, and most of the remaining time was spent on your arm.”

 

“I see,” hums Simon, turning the strange metal claws over in front of him. They click and grind together but the prosthetic seems sturdy enough, if a bit clumsy. “Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” he replies again. His thin mouth twitches into something resembling a smirk before he continues. “I imagine you’ll be wanting to know why you’re here.”

 

“Yes,” Simon confirms, quite possibly with too much vigor for his own good. “It wasn’t an accident.” He can feel the sightless pits of Ross’ eyes following him as he shifts. “Why me?”

 

The elder construct nods wearily. “Several reasons,” he admits. “Between the brain damage and age of your scan, your emotional plasticity is quite severely stunted—I’m sure you’ve noticed that.” He pauses a moment, pensive. “The Warden has also blocked the simulation of certain neurotransmitters to force depersonalization, so you can function without going mad.”

 

_ The rigidity of your neural imprint makes you pliable; ideal for receiving and carrying out orders. _

 

Simon stares blankly at Ross. He feels viscerally numb, just like Ross says he should, but intellectually something like betrayal is the most obvious response. He knows he should feel angry and trapped, but it all makes sense, in some twisted sort of way—Simon is an ideal template for the role he needs to perform in this strange new world, so here he is.

 

It’s fucked up that he can accept this, but what choice does Simon have? Today he woke up in his bed and hoped to close up shop early so he could take his boyfriend on a date. This is—was—his  _ life _ . His  _ world _ . Who do these people think they are to rip that all away from him, to drop him here in this  _ fucking nightmare _ and expect him to comply?

 

_ I am performing my function. You must perform yours. _

 

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from asking, “But why does She need to wake me up at all? Why do this to us?”

 

“Humanity is dead, boy. If intelligent life is to continue on this planet, it must evolve—but we haven’t the luxury of time or population to achieve it naturally.” Ross reaches out to put one spindly hand on Simon’s shoulder, understanding. “It is not good or right, but necessary.”

 

“I see,” Simon says, a bit dully. “My life’s just a tool, then.”

 

“By no means do I expect you to like it, but you are the most promising of the Unit’s creations,” Ross tells him, forlornly. “With time, we could build the human race anew.”

 

Simon isn’t sure he likes that, but without a solid rebuttal there is very little he can actually say on the matter that wouldn’t come off as arbitrary or childish. As poorly as it sits with him, Ross’s logic is sound and valid.

 

_ You are wasting time. _

 

“What now?”

 

Ross sighs, a raspy gurgling sound. “The Warden has made other attempts at human synthesis, ones which did not go so well as us.” He jerks his head to Simon’s claws where they are curled against his chest. “The surviving crew attacked you for a reason, boy. The other proxies are mad and dangerous, and they think us the same.”

 

He nods slowly, wiggling his prosthetic fingers experimentally. The inside curve of each metal claw is ragged and sharp, almost serrated and seemingly designed for gripping. Or rending flesh, Simon notes, they’d be quite good at that. He doesn’t think his new arm is going to broadcast a particularly friendly message should he try to make contact with Lambda again.

 

“Right,” Simon says. “We gonna do something about the crazy ones?”

 

“That’s exactly the plan,” Ross tells him. “There are only a few others, a half-dozen at most still up and about.”

 

Simon knows there’s no blood in his faceplate, but he feels like blanching. “Six!” He cries. “There was a monster I saw on the way here with Amy—it was a person, a man, but with this weird… fungus?” He pauses, searching for words. “No, it was fleshy… more like  _ tumors _ , instead of a head. It glowed and I couldn’t not look at it but when I did I couldn’t see—they’re not… all like that, are they?”  

 

“You say it was male?” Ross asks, surprise coloring his tone. “Are you sure?”

 

He nods in reply. “Very.”

 

Ross sighs heavily. “That makes it at least seven, then.” He crosses his arms and turns back to Simon. “To answer your question, no. There are only two of this kind, one male and one female. The rest should cause less trouble.”

 

“Okay,” Simon hums, somewhat relieved. “But how will we deal with them? I mean, you—er, no… If we can’t see?”

 

“I can see when these proxies are around, at least the female one.” He continues before Simon can ask his question, “I imagine the electromagnetic radiation they give off interferes with your processor.” He gestures to himself, his gaunt, fleshy body. “I don’t have this problem.”

 

Simon nods. “Makes sense,” he says. “Where do we begin?”

 

Ross reaches into his sweatpants pocket, pulling out a strange device. It has a blocky adapter on one end, and hooked prongs on the other, wound up with more of that black gel-growth. It almost looks like the male end of a charging cable from back in Toronto.

 

“This,” he explains, holding the device out for Simon to see, “is what we will be using to eliminate the rogue constructs. The body contains a specially-coded batch of structure gel designed to shut down the scripts keeping them animated. All you or I need to do is get the needles to break the skin and stay there: injection is automatic and the proxy will be out of commission in no more than an hour, depending on circulatory speed.”

 

Simon takes the device in his flesh hand, rolling it experimentally in his palm. “Okay,” he hums. “I gotta ask, though—if we can kill the code that keeps them alive, why not just reprogram them to be friendly instead?”

 

“An understandable question,” Ross sighs. “But it cannot be done. Their bodies were made in desperation, so even if we were able to reconstruct a sound mind with the tools we have available here, it would be destroyed by the strain and we’d be back at square one. It is far more humane to put them down.”

 

“Okay,” Simon whispers. Something cold knots in his gut as he hands the kill-device back to Ross, who puts it into his pocket once more. That could have been  _ him _ , he thinks. The Warden and Ross both said that the data looked good, that it all lined up in his favor, but what if they were wrong? What would happen to him then?

 

_ Do not waste time on less-vivid hypotheticals. You are needed elsewhere. _

 

They start planning their route based on the last known location of each proxy. “They wander a bit,” Ross explains, “but there are certain areas each seems to prefer. Territories, if you will—so while they  _ will _ move about, they shouldn’t stray too much from the predicted spot.”

 

“I see. There’s the one flesher-guy here—we’re still at Lambda, right?”

 

Ross nods. “We’ve detoured to a maintenance area, but yes.”

 

“Okay, good. So the flesher we can get to on foot, but what about monsters at the other stations? The tram crashed on the way from the other place.”

 

“Omicron,” says Ross. “from Omicron. That being said, there are other ways to get there; for one, you walked some ways from the station, didn’t you?”

 

Simon wilts, bobbing his head. “Yeah, but I didn’t like it. There’s an angry robot who wants my blood—er, gel, that is.”

 

“Was he coherent?” Surprise colors his tone.

 

“Yup, mostly. He said if I didn’t bring him gel next time we met he’d ‘or else’ me. Not sure what that means, but I don’t wanna find out if I can help it.”  

 

Ross hums thoughtfully, cupping his chin in one spindly hand. “I see. He’s certainly not well, but it would be best to attempt reasoning with him. That scavenger could be very useful to us should he opt to cooperate.”

 

So the plan was made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my one saving grace is that ross is such a straightforward character. like. he doesn't give half a shit anymore, just right down to business so he can get the fuck on out as soon as possible. im gonna talk more about him later
> 
> BUT! i have a question for anyone who actually cares to read this fic, let alone these notes: would you rather have more frequent updates with shorter chapters (~3-5k) or slow updates with longer chapters (~6-10k) ?


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